


The boundary between the earth and sky

by merrythoughts, ReallyMissCoffee



Series: Meet on the horizon [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Comfort, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Hurt, M/M, Roleplay Logs, Season 3, Sequel, Slow Burn, Trauma, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-03-06 03:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18842311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrythoughts/pseuds/merrythoughts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReallyMissCoffee/pseuds/ReallyMissCoffee
Summary: He doesn't know how he's going to survive this."Let's get you home," Jack says and Will wonders where that is.





	1. My gift to you

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, we're back! Years later, rising from the ashes, crawling back to our WIPs... We have had this first chapter done for a while and finally edited it as we've recently started writing on this again and we're busy and workin' toward their happy ending, we swear.  
> (≖ ‿ ≖)
> 
> Highly recommended to read the first part. I know it's long, but this won't make sense if you don't. JUST DO IT. (Please)
> 
>  **Disclaimer** : This is another merrythoughts & ReallyMissCoffee production. In case you don't know us, just a heads up: this is written first and foremost as an alternating roleplay between us which doesn't necessarily translate smoothly into an easily digestible or traditional fic format. 
> 
> At times we can be pretentious, repetitive and annoyingly wordy, but we're not going to change so please forgo any "constructive criticism" regarding the format. We are choosing to share our work and if you like it, you like it, if not, press the back button and try something else as we have no interest in attempting to fic-ify our stories.
> 
> Will is written by Merrythoughts ([tumblr](http://merrythought.tumblr.com))  
> Hannibal/Chiyoh/Freddie are written by ReallyMissCoffee ([tumblr](http://reallymisscoffee.tumblr.com/))

This isn't what Will wants and yet he is powerless to stop it. Hannibal on his knees, guns pointed at him, and Jack overseeing everything. The infamous Chesapeake Ripper - Hannibal Lecter brought down and caught on Jack's watch. Jack is pleased. But Will can't speak up, it would incriminate him. Hannibal and he are both unarmed and injured, they can't fight off the slew of law enforcement. Will may not know much, but he knows Hannibal doesn't _want_ him to try and intervene. It would end bloody. Does Will want that? He'd surely get Hannibal shot if he acted, he'd get another bullet or several himself. Will's heart gallops, but on the outside he merely looks stunned, the perfect picture of the shocked victim.

Things happen in a blur. He doesn't make to disarm and grab a weapon. He doesn't tell the truth (even though he wants to scream it aloud). Will somehow keeps himself together. He's tended to by medics until he can't handle being only in his boxers and undershirt any longer and he quietly asks Jack if he can at least get dressed and grab his things.

He knows there will be an examination, questioning, he'll be held in a hospital for observation, but right now Will just wants some clothing - some goddamn armor. Jack waves the nameless faces away but before Will turns to leave, _Hannibal_ turns to face him.

Will is frozen. It's not even a direct look, it's Hannibal casting him a glance that Will can't fucking discern _anything_ from. Can't _see_ anything, but then just like that, Hannibal is done with him and looks away. Fear and hurt crash upon his shores, storm clouds of betrayal and anger and hurt roll in.

When Hannibal gets handcuffed, Will finally walks upstairs. An officer comes with him, following a respectable distance behind. When Will passes Hannibal's room, he can't bear to look in and see the slept-in bed. When the house is combed through, they'll find out that he has slept with Hannibal (at least their last night). They'll explain his actions away, claim that he did what he needed to do to survive. Or Stockholm Syndrome.

At least the agent doesn't come into his room. Will closes the door and pulls on some nondescript slacks and a sweater. He slips on socks and doesn't exit without the knapsack that contains Hannibal's leather jacket and gloves.

(It's the only thing that he had with him when he showed up here and he's not leaving without it.)

Jack meets him at the bottom of the stairs and Hannibal is already gone. After his boots are put on, they leave the house together. It's a bright and sunny day and Will can't help but stop and stare at the cliffside and then to the ocean. His mind is blank. (Maybe he is the one who throws off baby birds--)

He doesn't know how he's going to survive this.

"Let's get you home," Jack says and Will wonders where that is.

**~*~**

They take photographs of Will's injuries. It's invasive and horrible and leaves his skin crawling. He has to explain how he acquired each wound and scar. He almost has a freak out when the doctor asks if a rape kit is in order. Will calms himself down, he has no other option. They monitor his vitals, his blood. The check his wounds. He's poked and prodded at and overall the medical team in charge of his care is pleased with how things are healing. Will wants to scoff and give a 'no shit' type of reply, but he stays quiet.

The hospital bed is stiff. He's hooked up to the usual machines that beep and show that he's alive. Will stays awake all night and tries to search through his mind for the exact moment that Hannibal had decided this course of action was necessary. Not like it would help, but maybe...

He sounds properly traumatized when he talks to the shrink for his psychological evaluation. Will knows how much to give, what to say, how to act.

(It's really not that much acting. He _is_ fucking shocked.)

Giving his statement to Jack isn't fun either, but it's a necessary evil. Will is locked into this role now. A survivor. Jack wants him to testify. Will nods.

He's released a few days later. He goes "home" but his home is dog-less and dusty and no longer resembles anything that brings him comfort.

**~*~**

Alana is now running the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. She'll be overseeing Hannibal's stay. Unlike Chilton, she's quite competentent. All it took was being pushed out of a window for her to _see_ and then to subsequently harden into someone more ruthless. Ruthless enough to work with Mason... How many people has Hannibal's storm touched and wreaked havoc upon? Will doesn't want to know the answer, so he drinks a bottle of whiskey and passes out.

He dreams of himself back behind bars, of Matthew Brown's devious eyes and his murmured command of, ' _I want you to kill Hannibal Lecter.'_ It seems far easier to remember _him_ being behind bars than Hannibal currently, and Will doesn't know what that says. Likely that's he's a shambling mess.

Had _his_ actions pushed Hannibal to this? All signs point to...

* * *

A penny for his thoughts? Wouldn't they be thrilled to be allowed inside, past the firmly-shut doors where Hannibal has barred himself away from the rest of the world.

He will live there for as long as it is necessary. He's padded his memory palace with images the same way a nesting bird would soft fur or bits of thread. A damnable red thread weaves in and out of Hannibal's mind as life carries on outside of him, and while he must be present for it for these uncomfortable days, the time will soon come where he will be allowed to sink back into comfort, back into that final night.

His arms wrapped around Will, the taste of his lips, his tongue, the sound of those soft, careful groans of need. Damn the sorrow and uncertainty; he will live in the moment of connection, of the feeling of his fingers sliding through Will's hair, of the feeling of Will's fingers in his own. It's a comfortable padding for however long this lasts. But as they take him away and tend to Will, Hannibal reluctantly remains present. He must.

The goal, after all, is _not_ to die. Too silent and he won't sell his case. Too silent and he's likely to find himself with a needle in his arm and an abyss ahead of him. So he's not.

He plays his role. His expression remains stoic, slightly detached, with a tightening of anger around his eyes as they take him away to a holding cell that makes Hannibal wonder if it had been specifically designed for him.

He's restrained, tight on the arms, with an amusing mask set over his face. It's hard and cold plastic and the temptation to leave his body in favor of more pleasant thoughts is there, but he must first play a role. He's quiet as he's looked over, and when he's questioned about his injuries, Hannibal considers, and then answers honestly. He speaks about Mason Verger and Jack Crawford blithely, but he can tell by the shocked look the medics share that he has won points for his case. He's given an attorney not long after, who looks disquieted but still professional.

Hannibal calls his own lawyer hours later. What need has he for handouts?

**~*~**

To his mutual surprise and curiosity, it is Alana who sees him before Jack. Hannibal keeps his interest in check as she nods to the orderlies outside of the door. When she turns to look at him, there's a tightness of satisfaction in her eyes as well as something else, something almost confused, almost frustrated. It only increases when Hannibal smiles at her.

"What are you doing?" She asks quietly, hushed. There is no one listening here, then, yet she is still so unnerved. "What is this?"

"An opportunity," Hannibal says quietly, and delights at Alana's expression of discomfort.

Jack meets him the next day, and Hannibal is quite pleased to see the tightness of anger around his eyes when Jack walks into the room. It is not a pleasant conversation. Hannibal employs all pleasantries, casual, like he's _not_ bound and muzzled, and he watches Jack's rage build.

While he is not struck, it is a very near thing, and Hannibal allows himself to enjoy Jack's rage. They both know that Jack's actions have given Hannibal power over the resulting proceedings, particularly as Hannibal had been willing to give up information on his murder of Pazzi. There will be an inquiry, perhaps. And words like 'criminal insanity' are already being whispered behind the walls. Jack's anger is real, his thirst for justice warring with his personal vendetta. After all, Jack had squandered his attempt at revenge back in Italy.

Yet when he steps in close and asks, "how does it feel to know he turned you in?" Hannibal cannot contain the twitch upon his face, cannot control the frown. Jack looks triumphant, and Hannibal merely looks at him levelly.

He thinks of Will, likely holed up in a hospital room, maintaining the best treatment possible. Hannibal doesn't answer, and Jack takes it as a victory.

**~*~**

Wolf Trap is a quaint little place where forests and trees are one-in-the-same. Any other time, perhaps a visit would not be unwelcome, but it is now.

There is light in Will's home. There are no officers truly watching his home. One keeps making slow rounds, but lazily, for what danger is there with the monster muzzled and behind bars? Perhaps Will's own paranoia. Perhaps his own danger. So there is a guard, but it is painfully simple to slip past him when he drives down the road to station himself at the end of Will's winding driveway.

Quick, skillful, it takes no time at all to alight upon Will's doorstep and no further time at all to find a way into the house. There are no dogs to alarm Will, no cameras to capture an unwelcome presence.

Chiyoh finds him in what appears to be a living room, and she announces her presence by closing the door behind her with a solid _click_. Then she walks to his curtains, quietly, and she draws them closed. There will be no onlookers.

"Are you satisfied?" She asks, with cool hostility that Hannibal would not thank her for. As he is not here, what need has she to give Will any benefit?

* * *

Will knows who has crept into his house. There could only be one person who would not want the officials knowing of their visit. Will's jaw clenches as he sits stiffly in his armchair. Without the sounds of paws padding around, collars jingling and sleepy snuffles, his house is far too quiet. It's in direct conflict with his loud mind.

Chiyoh isn't loud, but she's still a disturbance that Will doesn't want to deal with. With narrowed eyes he watches her draw the blinds closed.

Her question pierces through the fog of his defeat and sorrow, shaking him up, awakening him.

" _Satisfied_?" he repeats, incredulous. Will's vibrating with anger as he jumps out of his chair. His hands clench. He _wants_ to hurt her. He wants to lash out. Throw a lamp at the wall to shatter like the teacup had. Shake her. _Do_ something. Break something.

"You fucking knew and you didn't stop him or tell me?" Will shoots back. Chiyoh had been privy to Hannibal's plans. She'd facilitated them. She'd left him in the dark to be blindsided.

Chiyoh is a bitch.

* * *

Will's immediate anger is a balm for Chiyoh's senses. Isn't it a normal act of transference? The pain in her body - the emotional pain in her chest - demands that another shares the agony. As Will is the cause of it, she feels no guilt in verbally lashing out at him, at the spoiled whelp of a man who had needed _more_.

Chiyoh's expression remains neutral as Will leaps up onto his feet. She doesn't flinch or tense. She just stands there, her gloved hands held at her sides and her eyes dark with a subsequent bitterness. Will Graham is a fox, as he always has been. A slavering, reckless creature with a tongue made of silver and nose to the ground to seek out scraps. It is not a kind thought, but she is not in a charitable mood.

Will's accusation is met with cool, calm indifference. Chiyoh looks at him levelly and lifts her chin, both taunt and challenge. She is skilled at sophistication-in-anger and she has more than enough to go around at present.

"I warned you," she says quietly, detached. "I warned you, and he gave you every possible chance. But you are selfish. You needed proof. You needed _more_."

* * *

Chiyoh remains composed. A fucking pillar of calmness. She knows what he can do, doesn't she? He'd fucking meddled and orchestrated her into killing after all. Will had confessed to killing Abigail's father. Who knows what else she's aware of from their brief stint of living together. Chiyoh knows that he's not necessarily stable, and yet she stands her ground defiantly.

He could kill her. She has no weapon other than her will to live and Will thinks his frustration could easily overpower it. She's physically weaker than him. He could lunge at her. He could wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze and squeeze or even simply snap her neck. His shoulder would throb, but he could do it. Will can even _see_ himself doing it, he can see and feel the struggle as the life left her eyes...

He won't. He knows her loyalty is to Hannibal and yet it's still a betrayal. She'd encouraged talking. Communication. Will had. He'd tried, hadn't he? Not that it got him anywhere.

He knows her words are going to ricochet in his mind for far too long. _Selfish_. _Proof_. _More_. (Had Hannibal given him every chance? It's got to be bullshit.)

"Get out of my house before I call the cops," Will warns, seething. "You're trespassing." His jaw is tight. His hands are clenched by his side. He doesn't even know how he looks or what time it is.

Of course, it had only been a short while ago that _Will_ had trespassed on the Lecter estate, skulking from a distance, determined to connect with any remnants of Hannibal.

And he'd found Chiyoh.

* * *

Such a violent, reckless man. Chiyoh watches the expression flicker over Will's face. She watches the rage blossom and bloom, his petals spreading wide. Not a rose, not a true blossom, but a gaping maw. A fly trap. A lure. Something deadly and dangerous.

She is not reckless in the way these two men are. Her self is important. It isn't a bargaining chip, or something to simply throw around. Chiyoh watches the death and murder slide over Will's expression and knows immediately that this is truly dangerous. There's death in his eyes. It's the same look as hunger in the eyes of a wild beast. Perhaps less of a fox now after all...

So Chiyoh stands there, listens to Will's threat, and then hums. It's a dismissive sound, uncaring, though she feels the danger acutely. She is not too weak to be afraid the way this man is. So she silently reaches into her coat and withdraws a small envelope, setting it on the table.

Then she takes one lingering, bitter look at Will and turns, leaving the way she came, the letter sitting bold and threatening on the kitchen table.

* * *

Will can tell that Chiyoh's aware of the brimming rage waiting to erupt. Only the three of them know the complete truth and he's been stuck with himself. The professionals he's dealt with have been professional and therein lies the problem. He doesn't want to be told he's survived a harrowing experience, that he's likely suffering from PTSD but there's help for him. There's only one brand of therapy he wants and it's from Doctor Lecter.

Before she leaves there's an imposing letter deposited on the table. Will's first instinct is to rip it up. But it could be from Hannibal.

No, it _is_. Will knows it is. Chiyoh is now the delivery girl.

Will stares at the letter, tense and rooted in place. His heart is pounding but the anger is morphing into fear. Is it simply a fear of the unknown or a fear of unveiling a difficult truth?

Eventually he moves, legs stiff from standing for what's felt like hours. He opens the sealed envelope and reads.

**~*~**

Freddie has already snapped a spread-worthy amount of pictures of him looking haggard and passed out on his porch. Will knows he's going to have to move. The silence and space are now threatening and the public knows of his once-bat-cave. After the Lounds debacle Jack had sworn to beef up patrols and surveillance, but Will had staunchly refused. He hadn't wanted any extra attention. He'd promised to not make a scene if anyone came by and that it wouldn't be a problem for much longer as he was looking to relocate.

Will ends up purchasing a small fixer-upper closer to Baltimore but still on the outskirts. It's private and nestled in amidst thick trees on a small acreage. The renovations will keep him busy, at least that's what Will is hoping.

The only good news he receives is actually from Alana who informs him that Winston had been recently surrendered (due to numerous attempts to escape and head back to Wolf Trap). Will immediately picks him up from the humane shelter and unboxes his dog stuff.

"I know it's not home, but it's the best we have," Will tells Winston as the dog sniffs uncertainly at the open door before entering. Winston is familiar, but he's no fix. Still, the loneliness lessens incrementally.

* * *

Will doesn't get a lot of visitors as the days crawl on, but that doesn't mean that he's completely alone at his new place. To everyone's surprise, it's Zeller who visits him first.

It's an awkward visit, filled with long silences and even longer strings of forced conversation. To his credit, Zeller doesn't linger indefinitely. He offers Will a bottle of scotch wrapped in a red ribbon that he insists was Price's idea, and then he lingers for long enough to make the exchange uncomfortable. He wants to offer his services if Will needs to talk, but it's no secret to either of them that they don't _really_ like each other. Instead, Zeller leaves with an awkward, lingering hope that Will can get through this.

Price is next, in between visits from Jack. Unlike Zeller, he's much more sociable and able to fill the silence with a string of would-be-humorous chatter. He carries the conversation himself and delights in insisting that the ribbon was not, in fact, his idea. But despite the cheery exchange and Price's friendly clasp to Will's shoulder before he also leaves, there's a weight to his gaze that indicates that everyone knows that something is wrong. It is.

There's no denying it. They've got a psychopath in lockup, and Will's down for the count. No one knows how to handle him. No one is really sure whether they _want_ to.

For how could they know what is truly lingering on Will's mind? How could they know the weight in his thoughts? There's no quantifying what he's been through. But more than that, there's no way for them to know what lingers in Will's mind. None of them had seen the letter.

* * *

> _Will,_
> 
> _I will not attempt to explain what need not be explained. What I will explain is what you are to claim._
> 
> _You made the call to dispatch. You informed them where you were. You freed yourself._
> 
> _I kept you against your will. I was your foil, keeping you in that house. Everything you did was because I instructed you to do it. You will testify nothing but the truth on the stand. The difference will be that everything you have done, you were forced to do. No judge would dare charge you._
> 
> _If you deviate, if you attempt to say otherwise, I will contradict you._
> 
> _This is my gift to you. Freedom, a clean slate._
> 
> _Perhaps now you will believe me._

**~*~**

He still thinks about ripping up the letter on occasion. Instead, Will tucks it under his pillow for safekeeping. He should probably hide it better. Or get rid of it altogether (as it _is_ condemning), but he's not been treated with any suspicion. There's no reason his new place would be searched anyway. Hannibal has had no contact with him here and Will's the victim, after all. Their star witness. He loathes both labels.

When he lays awake late in the night, sleep having eluded him, Will's hand creeps under his pillow and he feels for it. He strokes the envelope, following along the line until he reaches an abrupt corner. The edge is sharp, but not sharp enough to slice. Not like Hannibal.

' _This is my gift to you. Freedom, a clean slate._

_Perhaps now you will believe me.'_

The words are a brand themselves, seared into his mind, burnt onto his heart, and Will feels all shades of wrong. He falls asleep only after taking a few shots of whiskey and then a few more. He knows he's taking better care of Winston than himself, but that's all right. Maybe he's approaching his expiration date.

He's had his bag searched through and returned to him for some time now. The knapsack rests on its own chair in his bedroom, an ominous artifact from a life that seems so long ago. Although he longs to, Will hasn't taken out the leather jacket or gloves.

**~*~**

After the impromptu visits from Zeller and Price, Will betters himself (at least a little). Stupid thing is, looking weary and traumatized just builds up the case against Hannibal. It plays up the whole victim card. That poor Will Graham... Suffered Hannibal Lecter's crazed obsession. Cut and "left for dead" in Hannibal's kitchen, a saw introduced to his head in Italy, Mason intervening and "saving him" for Hannibal then to kidnap and steal away. It's a wonder he's not back in the loony bin himself!

Once again Will dresses in a suit for a trial. This time, he's not going to be in the hot seat. His hands move on their own, putting on his tie and then doing up buttons. He's presentable, at least on the outside. He's trimmed his beard and his hair. It feels like a mockery that he's going to be better dressed than Hannibal for this legal juncture.

Jack picks him up and drives him to the courthouse. Jack had said it would look good to put up a unified front. Show some solidarity to leave no question about which _side_ Will is on and who is supporting him. (Freddie had vomited up some interesting headlines, trying to stir up controversy, but little did she know that this time she may actually be closer the truth...)

Will freezes when he sees the back of Hannibal. It's Hannibal in a prison jumpsuit, hands and ankles cuffed, surrounded by guards. Will can tell that Hannibal's hair has been shorn. Jack murmurs his name, trying to get him moving. Will feels heavy but thankfully his limbs do move. He's been coached, been told to not let Hannibal get under his skin, to not look at him, but it's painfully obvious that Will has forgotten all the previous instruction.

He walks in jerky steps, his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He simultaneously dreads and longs to see more of Hannibal, to catch his eyes, to search for why, to _connect_ again.

But Jack steers him where to sit and there's bodies in the way, he can't get a good look at Hannibal and it feels like torture to be in the same room, but unable to do anything about the distance. Will knows the truth, but the truth will not set Hannibal free.

* * *

The day of the trial approaches quickly but it matters little. The courtroom is packed, both with those in the public who can squeeze in, as well as with expert witnesses and more security personnel than is safe to have in one room.

Hannibal eyes them all dispassionately, just as he eyes his handler with the same level of detachment. He hardly notes the restraints, the men and women standing nearby with tasers at the ready, their shoulders tense, as if he poses such a threat as to be able to slaughter the hundreds of people present in one fell swoop. It's bordering on amusing, or would be, were Hannibal's attention not caught.

He spares Jack Crawford no mind. He spares Alana Bloom even less. While he is courteous and pleasant to the judge and the bailiff, and to the attorneys and specialists, it is _Will_ who catches his eye and holds it.

Hannibal hasn't seen him in weeks, in months. Much as it pains him to admit, even to himself, Will does not look good. Yet Hannibal stays where he is. He doesn't move. He hardly blinks in his own defense. All he does, all he _is_ , has narrowed in on the small picture that Will has made of himself.

How desperate Will looks in those few seconds that Hannibal is permitted to look at him before his view is obscured by one of the guards. Hannibal hadn't craned his neck to see; the guard stepping in front of him is incidental, but he still glances silently at the man's name tag. He sweeps his gaze over his build - pale skin, broad shoulders, muscular, a square jaw - and considers how best to prepare this man in the future. A spit roast through his haunch, perhaps to pack all the muscle delicately in clay and bake it over a fire. Hannibal muses silently, permitting himself his thoughts coolly, for he's well aware that this particular trial will not go well for him. He's counting on it.

Hannibal leans back in his seat quite comfortably for the proceedings, and it is the judge who eventually instructs the attendants to remove the tight plastic mask around Hannibal's face. It is a show of solidarity despite the tight look in the man's eyes. The farce of a right to a fair trial. Hannibal is almost amused, but he does sit steadily as the mask is removed. He doesn't snap the attendant's fingers off (no matter how badly he wishes to). Then he merely nods at the judge, courteous, and he settles back in his seat to observe the proceedings.

They are a fanfare of color and exhibition. Hannibal keeps his mouth shut as experts take the stand. He listens as they label him a psychopath, as they toss around phrases like antisocial personality disorder and sadism. Hannibal doesn't blink.

Chilton is composed enough that Hannibal regards him with silent satisfaction. His argument is simple: Hannibal is mentally ill, but he is not a monster. He states that Hannibal is where he should remain, in the care of the _psychiatric_ world, not the one able to dole out capital punishment. His words ring true and Hannibal's eyes glitter in silent satisfaction. Beside him, Alana shifts uncomfortably, undoubtedly sensing his pleasure, as this indicates that he will not be permitted everything that she has been giving him lately.

While the prosecution cannot link him to the Ripper's murders, there _is_ still a case against him. Both Alana and Jack indicate this as they take the stand separately. Hannibal more or less ignores them, but he does look at Alana quietly as she speaks of that night where she had been thrown from a window. _Defenestrated_. Such an amusing word, and such an entertaining woman. He's looking forward to catching up with her later.

She speaks of coercion, of Abigail's involvement, of Hannibal's manipulation, but ultimately the prosecutor's hands are tied. The tabloids will print whatever they want. They will imply that he's serial killer and a cannibal, and the public will believe him to be the Chesapeake Ripper. Yet he will only be convicted of a handful of charges.

He'd left Jack and Alana grievously injured. He'd killed Abigail. He'd attacked Will.

Ultimately, ironically, Hannibal's sentence hinges on two events more than any: his kidnapping of Will Graham, and his slaughter of those in Muskrat Farm. It is painful irony that his greatest crimes in the eyes of the court are not hinged on his work as the Ripper, but the result of the weakness of his love for one man.

Which is, of course, when the prosecution finally stands, visibly irritated, and turns to look back at someone in the crowd. Hannibal finally takes notice, quiet, as he stands up and announces that he is calling, "Will Graham to the stand."

* * *

Will's a wreck on the inside, a confused, angry and uncertain mix of volatile ingredients just waiting to explode. When he finally is able to glimpse Hannibal's face, the sight of the bite guard is jolting. This is the same man that had tenderly licked him clean, that had taken his soft penis into his mouth and lovingly worked him hard again...

Hannibal is also a cannibal. Hannibal had eaten pieces of Gideon and countless others. His hands had killed Bev and Abigail, but all Will can remember is Hannibal's soft touch on their last night together.

Hannibal had _known_ then and still said he wouldn't let go. Hannibal had asked for a damn kiss... Betrayal and hurt bubble up again, but it feels cool like the ocean, froth from tempestuous waves crashing against the bluff. There's no heat, not when Hannibal is so far from him. They're in the same room, but the distance feels further than ever before. Hannibal might as well be in Italy, on another continent, in another country and Will left gutted in every sense of the word.

Jack is an unyielding force beside him, both in mind and body. In some ways it's comforting. It's familiar. Jack is reasonable. Just like old times, he'll tell Will what to do, he'll push and keep him on the straight and narrow. (Is that really what Will wants? Who knows?)

Will zones out during the first day. And then the next. Whenever he's mentioned, there's a shuffling of uncomfortable focus that turns to him. Jack scowls enough to keep most onlookers in line - their eyes darting away. Alana looks sympathetic to him.

The tabloids are far from sympathetic.

On the day he is to testify, Will throws up in the bathroom from nerves. Jack had reminded him the night before to wash his suit. It looks rumpled now. It looks exactly how Will feels.

He knows which questions are going to be asked. He knows what he's supposed to say. Still, his mouth feels dry, his hands clammy and armpits sweaty. Will fidgets under the scrutiny, he stammers a little at the start, but as the questions continue Will sits up straighter, his voice gains a little confidence. He looks to Jack far too often. He taps into Jack.

(His eyes still flit to Hannibal every so often. His wounds have healed, more scars left in their wake, but Will feels raw.)

Weeks later Hannibal's verdict is decided. Consecutive life sentences. Declared Insane... He's going to continue staying at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Jack looks pleased. Will...

Will goes to his new place - a place that won't ever feel like home. As soon as he's inside, door shut and locked, he leans against the door and searches for something to latch onto. Anything. Anything other than numb. He slides his back down and crumples to the floor. Winston lays down beside him. He's lost. Will's hands bury in Winston's fur.

* * *

The sentence is not a surprise as it had been what Hannibal had silently been pushing for. Though he had been the one restrained during the courtroom proceedings, he had also been the one pulling the strings. From small glances at the hunger and vicious satisfaction in Jack's eyes - stoking his fury on the stand - to the way he had intentionally avoided Will's eyes for the majority of the proceedings (a painful act), Hannibal had orchestrated each moment perfectly.

His own testimony seals the deal. He gives as much as he must, and withholds the majority, but it's enough to be sentenced as he sees fit. Though the proceedings take weeks, when the gavel finally falls and Hannibal notes the flickering look of numb shock behind Will's eyes when the sentence is read out, Hannibal silently locks away all traces of his response.

Instead, he looks steadily ahead and lets his gaze unfocus. In his mind, he is not in the courtroom, but back in the house on the bluff, breathing in the scent of Will's presence beside him, an eternal imago that Hannibal intends to keep close.

The days pass like seconds, each one unremarkable, and each one carefully controlled. Alana is not a cruel warden, but neither is she calm. She walks around him with false confidence, but in her eyes, Hannibal notes the uncertainty, the wariness.

They share a secret, after all. They both know on whose shoulders Mason's death truly rests on, even if Hannibal had claimed responsibility in court. And Alana, dear Alana, is quite aware of what _could_ happen were Hannibal's story to suddenly change.

So she is cordial. She doesn't gloat. She looks at him curiously a few times and while Hannibal can see Will's name ready to leap from her tongue on more than one occasion, she smartly bites it back. Instead she locks him away but orders the orderlies to treat him respectfully.

One of them doesn't and he is immediately reprimanded. It earns Hannibal a bite-mask for the next week, but the terror in the eyes of those who deliver him his meals every day more than makes up for it, and Alana's wrath does not last long. Her main concern seems to be whether or not the orderly will sue. Hannibal is quite certain he will, but doesn't say as much.

Incarceration is monotonous and unfulfilling, but that is the point. This is not for recompense. He is not here for the families of the victims. He is not here to give Jack or Alana closure.

He is here to prove something to Will. He is here as a gift, however unwanted it might be. He is here to prove a point.

Yet it doesn't stop the ache. It doesn't stop Hannibal from thinking of him. And it certainly doesn't keep him from closing his eyes, breathing deep, and thinking back to the moments he'd spent with Will. From seeing him in Florence to holding him that final evening, Hannibal _lives_ in those few weeks, carrying on conversations with Will in his mind and basking in the memory of him. He misses him with a ferocity unmatched, and yet it isn't until Alana stops by his cell one day and pulls up a chair to speak with him that he truly allows himself to focus.

"What will you do if he comes to visit you?" Alana asks, her voice tight but respectful.

Hannibal goes still.

He politely requests Will be denied visitation a few hours later, though the words feel like bile in his throat.

* * *

Despite trauma, life goes on. The sun rises and sets. Will wakes up and goes to bed each night. The Earth rotates. Freddie has a field day with all of it. Chilton spouts off about writing a book. As always, vultures try and benefit from the sensationalism around them. It's nothing new, but it still pisses Will off. There's something so completely invasive about it all. Will's always been a private man but now from his entanglement with Hannibal, pieces of his life are public.

He doesn't want Hannibal's story to be splashed on pages, for Hannibal to be like an exotic beast in a cage for the public to scrutinize and then throw away when they're done. He doesn't want anyone taking a stab at _their_ story - no one knows, no one can know.

He denies interviews. He hangs up on Chilton; he sometimes wishes Miriam would have been a better shot. He curses Freddie under his breath; he sometimes wishes he'd actually killed her. It's a fury of despicable urges that pollute him.

It's easier to be angry at others.

Winston is a faithful companion to him, quiet and mindful of his dour state of being. Jack calls him to check-in. Will answers most of them simply because he doesn't want a visit. He takes care of himself on autopilot.

Shower the nightmare sweat off. Eat. Get some sunlight. Some exercise. Lie in bed. Maybe sleep. Don't get drunk every day. Scratch that, get drunk but not blackout-drunk. He doesn't let himself waste away - not entirely. There's too much he needs to know. He's missing a piece of himself. There can be no moving forward without it. There can be no dying without it.

Standing naked in the bathroom, Will looks in the mirror. Scars trail over his body, skin pulled back together, nothing exposed. His fingers travel over Hannibal's scars - the zipper on his belly and forehead, the bullet wounds others have given him in order to _save_ Hannibal. Who will save Hannibal now?

"You want to see him," Abigail says a few days later. It's been weeks, maybe months since he's last talked to her. Will sighs and shifts in his armchair, turning to face her. He's too exhausted to push her away. He needs a familiar face right now.

Her neck is bleeding freely, freshly slit. Exposed. Hannibal's heartache on display for him, Will's betrayal the inciting incident.

"Yeah, I do."

"You should then."

So, he tries.

It takes the clerk a few times of repeating herself for her reply to sink in.

He's not on Hannibal's list of permitted visitors. It's almost an out of body experience. Will _understands_ it, but he's left comically surprised by it. Stunned. Eventually he closes his mouth and turns himself around, forcing himself to walk out.

* * *

Were the fates on Will Graham's side, they'd have permitted him to walk back to his car, ruminate over this new information, and then drive himself home without incident. Surely such a shock had to be grounds for some measure of kindness, some measure of privacy? Hounding the bereaved is frowned upon.

Unfortunately for Will, no one but a select few _know_ that he is currently in bereavement.

As soon as he walks out onto the steps of the hospital, the shutter of a digital camera goes off in quick, repeated snapshots. Had it been anyone else, perhaps they would have sequestered themselves somewhere secret: behind a bush, around the corner of the building, possibly in a car in the parking lot. _Most_ people would have had shame.

Freddie Lounds is not 'most people'.

"It's strange," she says, stepping out with her camera plainly on display, "how someone who was so clearly _traumatized_ on the stand during Hannibal Lecter's trial is suddenly trying to visit him."

Her lips - painted a crimson even brighter than her hair - twist up into a small, knowing smile. Freddie walks confidently over to the bottom of the steps and lifts her camera again, catching another quick snapshot while she can. Her leopard-print coat makes it clear that she isn't even _trying_ to be subtle about the fact that she's been following Will, and quite happily. From seeing him go in, to seeing his shock at the front desk, now to this moment? Already headlines are running through her head.

"Did you come to face your demons, or for more... _personal_ reasons?" Freddie's grin grows, almost coy.

She's made no secret of her particular headline for the two of them. She's had Jack Crawford breathing down her neck for coining _Murder Husbands_ , and there have been more than a few threats and catty comments on _TattleCrime_ , but her goal is to get people talking, and oh, boy are they _talking._

* * *

Will needs to go home. He wants to hide. To sort himself out and probably drown himself in fucking whiskey because he has no clue what to do here. He doesn't even know how to process what Hannibal has done and _why_. Will's sure if he could just calm down and think rationally, he could figure it out. He's not an idiot.

Will shouldn't be surprised that life has decided to thrust Freddie Lounds in his way. He shouldn't, but for a moment he just freezes when she pops out like an unsightly cockroach. Disgust and surprise streak through him and Will stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets as his hands form into fists.

Undoubtedly she's snapped a few pictures of him looking shocked and disgruntled already. There's no way it's going to look good that he's here. She'll spin it horribly. Even if he hadn't visited Hannibal, the fact that he's _here…_ Jack is going to rip him a new one.

Another picture is taken before she mosies her way over. Freddie hisses her words out, all coy and self-satisfied. Will's never hit a woman before, but the urge rears its ugly head like a snapping dog. He wants to smack Freddie's fucking smile right off her face. It burns.

"I have nothing to say to you," Will snipes back. His lips are thin. He knows he _should_ just hurry off to his vehicle, yet it's the first time he's had an outlet to be frustrated at. "Why don't you crawl back into the sewer, Freddie?"

* * *

"And miss this? I don't think so."

Freddie's smile is smug and coy in equal measure. There's a lazy confidence about her as she all but rakes her eyes over Will's clear distress and anger. Even if she hadn't overheard the conversation between Will and the clerk, she'd have been able to figure it out. He looks stunned and shaken, like he isn't sure how to proceed from this point.

She snaps another shot of his anger and smiles wider. Freddie knows how to stir the pot and get the shot that she wants, and given how her tape recorder is running in her purse, she can already foresee a great article looming on the horizon.

"Does Jack Crawford know that you're here?" Freddie asks, her casual amusement all but dangling from her tone. "You being here doesn't look too good. Of course, neither does looking so upset. But I suppose it makes sense. Being denied visitation when someone like Frederick sees him weekly has got to hurt."

Her nails tap along the edge of the camera as she smiles. She clicks another picture - just in case.

* * *

She's a snake. Not quite like Bedelia, no, but a snake nonetheless. Freddie is a serpent and Will shouldn't give her the time of day. If she's this brash and taking photographs _in front_ of him, she's likely recording him too. Will's eyes flit down to her hideous handbag. He could snatch it and attempt to break the tape recorder, but she'd create a fucking scene. There are cameras outside of the BSHCI anyway. Worst case scenario, it could be seen as an assault. She'd probably try to sue him. Or a restraining order that she'd shove in his face and taunt him with.

The pictures are likely more damning. Her camera is right there. The desire to smash it is strong, but no, a broken camera wouldn't fix his problems. He'd need the memory stick anyway.

He loathes her, always has, always will. This wretched redhead who benefits off of scandal and misfortune - and now his misery. Will is seething, his fists clenching. He can see himself lunging at her and pushing her to the ground. He could punch her repeatedly in the face, just as he'd done with Tier. Changing pale skin into something bloody and bruised, using his hands. She didn't deserve intimacy, but it would feel good for Will.

He doesn't attack her. Will behaves. He pushes it down, so that all the ugly violent urges can mix with his grief and anger.

When she mentions that Chilton is allowed to visit Hannibal, Will's face drains. She doesn't even mention Hannibal by name, but they both know. Of course they do. Who else would Will be trying to visit? He's not on any case, he's not conducting interviews. Chilton? It doesn't seem plausible. Maybe the bitch is lying.

"I'm fine," is all Will grits out as he storms past her. He's never been so thankful of his body moving in his life. Left leg, right leg. His car is in the distance. He can see it. He can hold it together. He can't give more ammunition to Freddie Lounds.

* * *

The money-shot is so simple to get that it's almost sad. Freddie watches the color drain from Will's face and before he can correct his misstep, she snaps a few more pictures with the same smile on her lips. As far as she's concerned, her story is already done. With so many pictures of Will and his location, the story practically writes itself. Having him looking so despondent and lost will only add more fuel to the fire.

The downside is that she doesn't have a really good _quote_ this time around. Sucking thoughtfully at her teeth as Will storms past her, she watches him get a few feet away before she turns, hikes her bag up a little higher on her shoulder, and casually follows after him.

As many hits as this article will get, she owes her dedicated readers a little more than just Will Graham looking like a lost puppy outside of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. So she follows after him and considers her angle. She knows what she wants from him; the only question is how to _get_ it. But she's not one to be deterred; Freddie loves her job, and _oh_ , does it show.

Her heels click on the sidewalk, a staccato to warn Will that he's not alone even now, and Freddie's smile doesn't falter once.

"I must admit, being denied visitation was a surprise. I mean, after everything... shutting _you_ out? After you went behind the backs of the Bureau to find him in the first place... Suppose the Honeymoon's over."

* * *

Of course she doesn't give up. Why would anything with Freddie be so simple? Why would he catch a break? Will hears her following after him and frustration and anger scorch through him. His jaw clenches to the point of pain. Her heels click, sounding louder than they ought to (obnoxious like her in every respect).

Will gets to his vehicle, his fingers curling around the keys in his pocket. Unfortunately he's not fast enough. Freddie gets her last quip - the last word - the last laugh. She's always been a mouthy bitch. Maliciously, Will can't help but wonder how Hannibal would prepare her. An apple shoved in her mouth, like the pig she is.

_'Suppose the Honeymoon's over.'_

Like a twig underfoot, Will snaps. He tenses, his fingers curling over his keys and the edges digging into the palm of his hand. "Guess he and I are getting a divorce then," he shoots back. "Now kindly fuck off."

Will rips out the keys, shoves it into the lock, twists it and then opens the door. He climbs into his car and honestly, if she doesn't move, he won't feel bad if he runs her over. He doesn't bother pulling the seat belt on, choosing to focus on starting the car and escaping this horrible moment that he absolutely knows he's going to regret.

* * *

It's a moment that Will is _absolutely_ going to regret, as the moment the words escape him, Freddie's eyes light up like she's just been handed the keys to a gold mine. Her smile is immediate and curling, wide and satisfied, and when it fades into a smirk, there's hardly any pause before she steps aside with a gracious sweep of her hand, like she's merely gesturing Will to pass her, like she's given him _permission_ to pass by unaided.

She has what she needs, after all, and she intends to use it.

 _'Divorcing Hannibal Lecter'_ does have a nice ring to it. It's sensational, it's eye-catching, and best of all? It's all about Will Graham. The whole _Murder Husbands_ angle has netted her a fair increase in her reader base.

She can't wait to see what her readers will think about this new development. Smirking, watching as Will enters his car and drives off, Freddie slides her camera into her purse, looks around, and then wanders off back to her own car.

Time to get to work.


	2. More than this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his affinity, despite his _need_ for this wretched creature, Hannibal still finds his suffering beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *internal screaming* (.•̵̑⌓•̵̑)

Freddie's article could have been worse. It's very little comfort for Will because Jack rips him a new one. Jack had even driven to his place to reprimand him. Will throws his hands up in the air and claims that he doesn't know what he was doing and blames the trauma. Jack suggests getting some help - some medication and therapy - and Will feels a scream threatening to shriek out of him. Instead, he nods and mutters that it's probably a good idea. 

It seems to placate Jack - at least for the time being. 

Therapy. There's only one Doctor he wants to see, only one man he'd open up to, and that man doesn't want to see him.

It burns and takes way too much whiskey to fight that. 

After he blacks out three nights in a row and is greeted to Winston being forced to have an accident, Will vows to cut back on the drinking. His liver will be thankful, he's sure. Winston too.

Two weeks later, he has Winston at an off-leash dog park and he meets _her_. She has three medium sized dogs and a son named Walter. Molly is sweet and practical, a widower, and Will immediately feels drawn to her warmth and light. 

He walks with them as their dogs mill about, tails wagging happily. The sun is shining, a few lazy clouds lingering in the sky. Will feels lighter in her presence. They talk about their dogs, talk about their homemade dog food. She doesn't know who he is. She doesn't know what he's done and what's been done to him. It's simple and a welcome respite. He's surprised to realize that he enjoys both Molly and Walter's company.

He's sure this is another one of those "... in another life" instances, but he does exchange numbers with her. Maybe it could be _this_ life.

Will's lonely. He wonders if Hannibal is too. Winston's kind eyes hold no answer as Will pats him on the head and sips his coffee that's gone cold. It never tastes as good as Hannibal had made.

* * *

Much as Will would like it to be _this_ life, 'this' life has other plans, and they are in the form of his silent shadow. 

Chiyoh watches quietly, ever the silent observer. Each week, she reports back, sending letters in the form of slightly-manic fan letters that only Hannibal will be able to decipher, and while it takes him some time to get her each of his return letters, she is given quiet instruction that only she can discern. 

She has been asked to watch Will Graham, and watch him she does. She watches him fall apart, watches him fray at the seams, watches his stress bleed deep and his skin turn pale and his hair grow wild as his clothes steadily become more and more unwashed. She watches him become the shadow she is, watches the light fade following Hannibal's rejection, and frustration for these two men burns deeply. 

Yet still, she watches. She watches until she cannot _just_ watch anymore, for all it takes is a single meeting for Chiyoh to recognize the danger that exists from Will's interaction with the woman at the dog park. Chiyoh observes the lightness in his step with a curl of her lip, and it is then that she makes the decision to go to him that evening. Even now, and he has not learned...

She goes to him that next evening and lifts a hand, knocking a closed fist against his door thrice, with the exact same cadence each time. This time she knows she is not being watched, nor monitored. Hannibal has been locked up for long enough to lower many hackles, except for hers. And the moment the door opens, she wastes no time.

"Do you think your plans _wise?_ "

* * *

The days feel long. Will feels empty, like he's merely going through the motions. Get up and then let Winston out. Piss, shower, wash, shave (maybe). Force something into his belly. Feed Winston. Drink coffee. Read. Drink alcohol. Throw things. Nothing really helps. Nothing takes off the relentless edge that grates along his mind and heart. Hannibal is the answer, the necessary balm and Will can't have it. 

(There is only one medicine Will is interested in.)

Hannibal is the one locked up. Will is supposedly free, but it doesn't feel like it. He feels chained. Burdened. Pazzi's voice floats through his mind (" _we both need to unburden"_ ). Stupidfool... Will had warned him to stay off of Hannibal's trail. This time, it's not the dead that Will is carrying with him. Oh, no, no. It's the living. It's the ghost of Hannibal haunting him, a trace amount of evidence left where no one else can ever find it. 

The truth does not set him free. Regret and bitterness have formed chains around him. 

"You're lucky you don't hear the thoughts in my head," Will comments with a disparaging half-grin at Winston. Winston predictably looks up at him from his dog bed but doesn't do anything else. A knock disturbs Will from his brooding. From the style of it, Will knows that it's going to be Chiyoh.

Unlike last time, Will is desperate for scraps. She may have been in contact with Hannibal. He's bolting from his recliner and unlocking the door. Of course, the first words out of her mouth piss him right off and Will is glaring.

But he doesn't slam the door in her face. Will moves to the side as Chiyoh steps in. She looks as severe as ever, but still she's welcome. (And that realization certainly isn't comforting.) 

"When have you ever known me to be wise?" Will remarks. "I assume you're referring to Molly. You watching me Chiyoh?"

* * *

The door opens and there exists a curious expression on Will Graham's face that Chiyoh only half-observes before she steps inside. To her surprise, he doesn't move to stop her. Instead, he steps aside, allowing her entry, and the ease in his posture finally adds up into something tangible in her mind. There is a subtle-but-fevered desperation in his eyes. If _her_ presence in his life is suddenly welcome, she can only wonder how far he has truly fallen. 

"Yes," she says without shame as she looks around his home. It's chaotic. He has clearly not been cleaning, and the number of empty bottles would be alarming were Chiyoh to care beyond Hannibal's favor. However, as she eyes the dog in the house and then takes note of the sheer _number_ of bottles, coupled with the hollow, aching look in Will's eyes, she surprises even herself with the small twist of something nearing empathy she feels for this man. Will Graham had forced her hand, had crafted her into a pawn of his own making. She had felt the hot drench of blood she'd sworn herself to guard, and she cannot forgive him for that. Yet to look at him is nothing shy of pitiful. Hannibal won't be pleased.

"I have been. And I will continue to do so, both for your sake, and for his." 

She watches quietly as Winston stands, cautiously creeping over to her while licking his lips. She knows foxes well enough to recognize nerves, and so she slides one of her gloves off and offers him a closed fist. After a second of hesitation, he leans in and scents her hand, though it doesn't make him look more at ease. Instead, his attention turns to Will, and Chiyoh is silently impressed by the loyalty between Will Graham and his dog. If only that loyalty could be implemented elsewhere.

"Am I not trespassing?" She adds, referring to the first night she'd shown up, when Will had threatened her and ordered her to leave. "How quickly our minds change when desperation takes root."

* * *

Hadn't Will balked at the thought of _time_ being the only reliable healer? But time has passed and this interaction with Chiyoh is markedly different than the first had been. It's because he actually _wants_ to see her, he's desperate to have any connection to Hannibal, even if it's faint and with someone he has a volatile and tenuous relationship with.

God, how is this his life? Will wants to be sickened by who he is, how desperate he's becoming. He remembers Hannibal's glittering eyes in the barn when Will had tried to squeeze the trigger on Ingram. Hannibal had murmured about Will being in a chrysalis, Hannibal had been pleasantly surprised by him trying to pull the trigger, but Will doubts Hannibal would be impressed with him now. 

Chiyoh sure isn't. Will sees her appraisal and judgment as she glances around his place and takes stock of the his dismal living conditions.

He knows that she's been keeping an eye on him, so her answer doesn't ruffle him in the least. Winston is smartly wary but he does eventually go over to Chiyoh to investigate and Will quietly closes the door. He rubs at his own patchy face, feeling heavier and far older than he'd like. 

Is he lovesick? The very idea is ridiculous and yet here he is, being a hermit and nearly falling apart. The word _trauma_ streaks through his mind. Will doesn't think he's some survivor.

He pointedly ignores Chiyoh's disparaging comment. He knows he's desperate. Hannibal denying him visitation... Will hadn't expected it. He thinks of Molly, a woman who actually _wants_ to spend time with him and hadn't seemed put off by his scars or demeanor... The thought of Chiyoh telling Hannibal about her? About himself? It's a sobering thought. 

"I need to see him," Will says as he resolutely turns around and heads back to his recliner. Winston comes over to him and sits up beside the chair so Will can pet his neck.

* * *

Such a venomous history between them that has led to this, to such obvious suffering and such drastic measures. The pity in Chiyoh's chest feels like bile and yet she can no more get rid of it than Will can get rid of his hurt. A part of her wishes to be cruel, to be cutting, to stretch Will's thread tight and take a serrated blade to it, to watch him break apart strand by strand for what he has done. 

Yet the rest of her is as professional as Hannibal is expecting her to be. He had bid her to watch, to observe Will Graham, to ensure his survival, and she will do so. If only the word 'survival' were not so vague, for can this be considered surviving?

Will turns away from her, ignoring her comment, and Chiyoh does not repeat it or offer another barb. She satisfies herself with subtlety and knowledge, and on the realization that Will Graham is less than a shade now. Hannibal would not be pleased, but Hannibal is not here. Chiyoh can blame Will for his failings all she wishes, but that will not solve the issue.

_'I need to see him_.'

Chiyoh's smile is mirthless, her soft breath of a laugh almost wry. She looks around the living room without emotion, watches Will sit and his dog join him. Then she turns and walks in silence to the kitchen. She says nothing for long moments, but when she returns, it is with a glass of water that she holds out to Will with an expression that will hear no argument. 

Pity is a cruel emotion. Chiyoh does not wish to care about this wretched man. Yet Hannibal's care infects even those closest to him. She sighs.

"He will see no one without reason. This was his gift to you. Freedom and space to draw conclusions without suspicion of his influence."

* * *

Like the house on the bluff hadn't been Hannibal's home, this new place isn't Will's home either. It has a few of his meager effects and it has Winston, but there is no safety to be found here. There is no peace, no river to wade out to. There is a least more privacy than his place out in Wolf Trap, but that's about all. 

Winston's fur is familiar and soft under his fingers and Will knows Winston deserves better than his depressed and desperate self, but he's too selfish to give up his dog. Some days Winston feels like his last hope, a life preserver tossed out to him while the waves become more and more treacherous.

Will takes the offered water and he drinks it. Funny how Will had taunted Chiyoh about being an old toy for Hannibal and yet she is the one who is in contact with Hannibal now, she's the one with the power. Will has been discarded - set free, apparently. It doesn't feel like freedom. It feels like madness pounding inside his skull and the whiskey is barely dulling it now. The days draw on, the scars form, but the wounds feel deeper than ever. 

Sometimes Will wishes Hannibal wouldn't have been interrupted by Mason's men. Other times Will thinks it would have been better to die under Cordell's scalpel... Or Hannibal's steady hands in his kitchen. A mercy killing. Will knows it's pathetic, but there is an appeal to taking the easy way out.

Trauma is rife, without Hannibal it feels like the demons go unchecked. Who is to keep them at bay now? Whose shadow will make them flee? Right now, Hannibal's influence feels more than welcome.

"Please just tell him," Will says and he loathes how wretched his voice sounds. "Tell him I want to see him. I don't know how much longer I can do this for."

Will looks up, an imploring look directed at Chiyoh. He has nothing else to say to her.

* * *

Will takes the water without comment or insult, and something worse than pity worms its way under Chiyoh's skin: nervousness. Suspicion is close to follow, but the initial spark of nerves is like oil in water - dark, swirling, obvious, and polluting. She feels the twist in her stomach, feels the unease litter her chest like fallen leaves, and as Will drinks the water without complaint, that nervousness grows. Perhaps she does not know this man, but she knows who he had been at the bluff. She knows him enough to know how he _will_ react, and yet this is not typical. 

She says nothing, standing stoic, but her attention slowly turns to the canine at Will's side. That, more than anything, is what truly cements the sudden unease in her mind. 

The dog is looking at Will and Chiyoh can see the whites of his eyes, can see the nervous way he licks at his lips, the way his ears have pinned back. 

Something is wrong, and _far_ worse than she had assumed if Will is willing to accept a gesture of pity from her without comment, without protest. 

When his wretched gaze draws up to look at her, Chiyoh knows what has unnerved her so. Will's eyes are hollow and dull, his expression drawn, his cheeks sallow and sunken, and there exists nothing alive in his eyes. Chiyoh's severe expression softens; her lips turn down at their corners, and Will's request is what truly drives it home. For _that_ is what had concerned her. Will looks at her - _imploringly_ \- and his voice is cracked and wretched but _real_. 

That he doesn't know 'how much longer he can do this for' is alarming, for there is no denying what that means.

Hannibal had instructed Chiyoh to ensure Will's survival, even against his own hand. This... is as close to the end of Will's rope as she has seen, and Chiyoh suspects that Will's desperation is real. 

Anger wars with pity, and pity wars with uncertainty. For once, she is without direction, standing in the midst of a shattered life that is not hers. She somehow knows, with certainty, that this is the last time that she will see this man if her answer is incorrect.

"You have seen your truth then," she says, finally, with hesitation. "I... will tell him."

* * *

The idea of being in debt to Chiyoh is distinctly uncomfortable. To need her, to be dependent on her - on anyone - is not ideal, but what choice does Will have? He's out of choices. He's practically been exiled in his supposed freedom. He doesn't want Hannibal's clean slate. How could anything be clean between them? The slate should be smeared with blood because each of their partings has felt like a limb being torn off.

Will can see the judgement, but he can also see the wariness. Will can imagine that Hannibal had instructed her to keep an eye on him, to ensure that he didn't do anything supremely reckless (and he's loathe to admit that that realization gives him a spark of hope because it's Hannibal _still_ looking out for him). 

Chiyoh is not stupid. Her dark eyes are penetrating and she sees that Will is on the edge and while Will detests showing his cracks for her, he has no choice.

There is silence while she deliberates, while the internal war is raged. He knows she wishes he would give up completely, but Will can't do that. Will sits, one hand in Winston's fur, the other holding the glass and when she speaks, Will feels lighter.

**~ * ~**

* * *

Chiyoh is subtle in her correspondence. Hannibal had carefully instructed her on how to send him messages while in captivity. Her name is not known, and she is not the only one to write him, for Hannibal finds that he does spend a fair bit of his time reading mail that Alana permits him. It's a strange realization, how many seem to _approve_ of his actions, but Hannibal has long studied the effects of notoriety and those who would cling to an ideal instead of a person. 

He still reads each letter that comes through, finding a dull sort of amusement in the ones that profess him a God, and finding a bored passiveness over the ones that call him a monster. He still reads each, for it means that when Chiyoh's letters do come in, it breaks no pattern. Hers are as nondescript as the rest, as flowery and flowing as the others. Yet _she_ tells him what he wishes to know.

She speaks of Will often, in a way that cannot be traced. She speaks of crimes she believes he committed in lieu of speech about Will, and observations about his activities in lieu of what Will has done. Though it sometimes takes awhile to decipher, Hannibal takes each offering like the gift it is. 

He reads about Will's woes, his isolation, his move. Chiyoh tells him about his loneliness, how he has yet to move on, to try and find anything to do with his life but drink. She claims laziness and weakness, but Hannibal cannot help the aching spark of bitter hope and loss at the thought of Will not _wishing_ to move on.

It comes to a head when Hannibal receives a letter from her in a different hand, her usually-immaculate handwriting jagged with an artful desperation. Hannibal's eyes narrow as he reads the letter, and while it takes him a moment to understand, he _does_ understand. Chiyoh has phrased it perfectly. 

He knows in a heartbeat that Will is desperate, that he is nearing an edge that he had warned Chiyoh to never let him cross. 

With conflicting emotions, Hannibal speaks to the facility about his visitation, and while there are a number of suspicious looks and accusations, Hannibal says nothing. He simply gives the order to allow Will visitation and refuses to speak beyond that. Instead, he gathers a piece of paper and pen and he gets to work on informing Chiyoh of his decision.

* * *

Like bread and water, knowing that Chiyoh will communicate with Hannibal is a hope that sustains Will. He tries to eat a little better and drink a little less while he waits. Waiting is never easy, but he attends the necessary appointments and he lies so easily and without much regret that he wonders how much Hannibal had changed him, or if he's always been like this. Will suspects it's likely a combination.

A few weeks later, Chiyoh slips a note under his door and when Will finds it, he stares at it, his hand steady.

He doesn't go immediately. Will makes himself wait one day and he gets his hair trimmed and rifles through his clothing to find something presentable. It should be laughable to be organizing what he's going to wear the next day, Will's never cared about fashion, but it helps calm his nerves. This is the first time he's seen Hannibal in person since the court dates. 

He calls Alana to arrange meeting her the following day as he knows word would get to her and Will wants to be on top of this. Thankfully she clears her schedule and only sounds mildly uneasy over the phone. 

Will dresses in dark pants and a muted grey shirt. He combs his hair the next day but decides against trying to hide the scar on his forehead. Why bother?

Alana looks sharp, almost severe in her dramatic tailored pantsuits that reflect more of Hannibal than her. He misses her more whimsical dresses and patterns, but he understands that this is not the same Alana Bloom. Will keeps his opinions to himself, however. This is her castle now. The small talk is ridiculous and it's actually _her_ that cuts to the chase. She doesn't ask why, she asks if Will is _sure_.

Will doesn't answer that but asks her for whatever privacy she can swing. After a discerning look, she compromises: allowing the audio feed to be turned off but the video to remain on as well as a guard outside the door. 

It's her who leads him and Will feels like he's walking on death row (his death? Hannibal's? He doesn't know.) 

"Be careful," she says quietly and Will gives her a polite nod as he's buzzed into the room. 

There is a large clear partition between Hannibal's "cell" and him. The so-called cell is much nicer than Will's had been. Hannibal is more of a celebrity here if anything. Will doesn't find it amusing. 

His eyes take in Hannibal who is in a plain prisoner jumpsuit with shorter hair and sitting at a steel table. Will opens his mouth, but nothing comes out as he walks closer.

* * *

It takes time for the message to go through, and time for the proper channels to open. Yet when they do, when Hannibal is told - by an orderly reeking of fear - that he has a Mr. Will Graham coming to see him, he simply thanks the orderly with a false politeness and sits back in his seat. 

Hannibal is unsure what the next hour will bring. Yet despite the amount of time that he'd envisioned something like this, despite the conversations that he's been having with the shade of Will Graham in his mind, when the door opens and Hannibal is treated to his first sight of Will, all else fails. 

The words that had been lingering within suddenly vanish. Hannibal merely looks up at him as he walks over, and as Will meets his eyes, Hannibal sees the wildness of relief and fear reflected in Will's eyes too. Will opens his mouth but says nothing, and Hannibal swears he can hear everything that has gone unsaid. 

He looks Will over - from his clothes and hair, styled so well, to his gaunt cheeks and pale skin which belies the lack of care that Will has been facing. Hannibal takes a long moment to look him over, as if drinking in his fill. Then he slowly stands, fingertips placed almost artfully on the table as he does so.

"Hello, Will," Hannibal says, like this is merely his office and Will is once again his patient. He glances up once, at the nondescript camera always pointed at his cell. "Are we alone?"

* * *

Like a bird released from captivity, did Hannibal truly wish him free and to never return? Could Will have started anew? Should he have tried? He could have moved further away. He could have pursued Molly. Now that seems like a distant dream for another life. 

When Will sees Hannibal, everything fades to the background like a dull roar. It doesn't matter if this is being recorded. It doesn't matter that this is a cell and Hannibal is its sole occupant. There is still a distance between them, but it feels so much smaller now, more manageable (and it's like a breath of fresh air after months of captivity - Will is so _hungry_ that it honestly frightens him). 

Hannibal is alive and real and despite the prison attire, he still looks proud and relatively _fine_. Will has the distinct feeling that, if anything, _he's_ the one who looks worse for the wear. It almost brings out a derisive chuckle. 

Will's red thread is pulled and like a moth to a flame, he's drawn closer to Hannibal. His feet and legs move him and it almost feels like walking in water, the very air around his body somehow providing resistance. 

He doesn't stop, however. It's another reunion of sorts, but this time their audience isn't the dead of the catacombs or a beautiful Botticelli. It's Alana. Will has no doubt that she's watching this exchange. Behaving properly is a mild concern for Will, but it still exists.

Hannibal's eyes look him over. Will doesn't hide from the scrutiny, he's too caught up in reveling in _Hannibal_ being here in front of him. Will knows that he doesn't look the best, but Hannibal has seen him in various states of duress (and been the cause of a few of them too). 

This current state of being is Will's doing. He's chosen how he's been getting by. He's chosen the drinking and poorer self-care habits and now he's here. Hannibal rises and Will's eyes flit downward, focusing on his hands. Those hands have hurt and mended him. They won't be doing any of that because now they can't touch him.

It's Hannibal who speaks up first, a simple 'hello Will' like no time has passed at all, like this could be another one of their scheduled appointments. 

Except so much time has passed. _Months_. Will had woken up to an empty bed and agents and Jack storming in. Another painful separation, another instance where Hannibal had chosen to discard him. Will is honestly glad for the question as it gives him something easy to say. 

"Alana is watching, but the audio feed is cut off," he answers with a steady voice. Will stops about four feet away the partition. 

* * *

It is as if color has returned to the world, as trite a notion as that seems. Hannibal has experienced this before, finding Will again after so long, yet the shell that Will Graham had become in his absence had soured the reunion. 

Hannibal is nothing if not a patient man. Even now, as his gaze slides over the hollowed, gaunt cheeks before him, something flickers to life under his own skin. He can enjoy the color that seeing Will brings, but that does not shade the reality so much so that Hannibal cannot see it. He will not be blind even if the decision would be far simpler to make.

With his fingertips almost dusting the top of the table, Hannibal waits for Will to approach. Hannibal looks up and sees wildness and hunger in Will's eyes. In his mind's eye, he can almost envision Will desperately clinging to the damnable red thread between them, using it to attempt to pull himself back up over the edge of the bluff that he had so often envisioned throwing himself off of. Even in the dead of night, lain beside Hannibal, his doubts had been all-encompassing. Hannibal can only hope that this - all of this - will have finally been enough for the ravenous psyche of Will Graham.

He walks around the table but does not come close. As Will stops, so too does Hannibal, a veritable mirror of posture, a reflection of what - and who - they are. Hannibal needs no words to ask his questions even if they are apparently being granted silence. Will's distance equals Hannibal's distance, and as Hannibal looks him over slowly, he lingers on the clear signs of abuse that Will has put himself through. 

Hannibal might be pleased to see him, but that does not mean that he is blind to what Will's appearance _means_. Chiyoh had been right to make the request. Hannibal only hopes that enough time has finally passed.

He glances briefly up at the video feed and regards it for a long moment, both acknowledgement _and_ threat. Then he ducks his head slightly, as if greeting Will. In reality, it will just make reading his lips that much harder. 

"It is good to see you. Though you appear to have lost weight. Have you been eating?"

* * *

Can Alana see the absolute wretched desperation? Does Will even care if she can? There is a good chance this could leak to Freddie somehow. Will wouldn't be surprised if she had paid off more than a few of the staff here to let her know if Will showed up again. Will's sure Alana will tell Jack too. This visit is not so simple. This action will have ramifications. Will they be lasting? Will doesn't know. There is much that he doesn't know and still, he knows that this is exactly where he wants to be. There is a rightness to being merely _near_ Hannibal again, as if they've completed a rotation around the sun and can now finally see each other.

Hannibal stops as he does. How does that make Will feel? He doesn't want to acknowledge the ache, that gnawing thing in his chest that hasn't felt peace for months now. Will wants to be closer, but even if he takes those few more steps, there is a partition that he can't pass through. 

Love and longing do not assist here. His body is physical, the barrier is physical. Will could throw himself against it over and over and gain no headway. He could likely wrench his shoulder in the process and not move it an inch.

Still, the partition gives him sight of Hannibal and his eyes drink it in hungrily. Since their reunion in Italy, Will hasn't had imaginary conversations with an imago of Hannibal (the very idea had seemed sacrilegious). Now with Hannibal before him, Hannibal chooses to be benign, to offer up friendly pleasantries as it were. 

Irritation flickers over Will's face, his jaw tightening and a grimace following. He's not here to discuss his poor self-care regime.

Will takes another step closer - how could he not? His heart is wild in his chest, pounding, proving that he's alive. He loathes this desperation, this recklessness. 

"I'm sure you can discern that answer," Will remarks, clearly not interested in pursuing that avenue. "I never wanted this," Will goes on, a hand raising to wipe at his almost-beard. He misses his glasses. One small piece of armor, but maybe it could help... "I feel like I'm going mad, Doctor. What's the best course of action to take?" 

His eyes are imploring.

* * *

Each step in this careful dance feels monumental. A beat of each heart, a slide in each sole over the hard ground, a blind of their eyes. In unison, in sync. Hannibal takes great care to match each action in certain places, but in others it exists naturally. 

Red thread or not, desperation and madness or not, there is little separation between them. 

How they had ever existed separately, Hannibal will never know. Perhaps they hadn't. Perhaps he had merely been beating one wing whilst waiting for another, contented that by disturbing the air, he would one day find his pair. Fanciful notions, romantic notions, yes, but the sight of Will before him is like nothing that Hannibal has experienced since Florence. He feels the same ache, the same need and interest, but like that day, he remains stoic, he remains carefully in step.

Will takes a single step closer and Hannibal follows suit. He doesn't look at the camera, for he doesn't _care_ what Alana gleans from this conversation. She holds him captive, but he is the one holding the cards even now. Yet he finds himself pleased that Will's attention is focused on him and _only_ on him. Were he to turn, were his face to be visible... Hannibal believes that he would view that as an unquestionable breach of privacy. The anguish and madness flickering like rabies in Will's mind is for him and him alone. Despite his affinity, despite his _need_ for this wretched creature, Hannibal still finds his suffering beautiful.

Will begs, though perhaps not in so many words. Hannibal watches him and sees his desperation in the pinch of his brow and the need in his eyes. Yet despite all the answers that he could give, despite Will's near-hissed assurance that he hadn't wanted _this_ , Hannibal only regards him. 

His gaze flickers from fond to cold and back again, as though it is difficult for him to decide on which to focus on. In the end, though it is unsatisfying, he looks Will over anew and takes in the hollowness to his cheeks, and the pale, ashen quality to skin once so vibrant. Hannibal cants his head, almost thoughtful, and then he meets Will's eyes.

"When madness is your only port in the storm, you might decide to nurture it. To feel it thrum through every vein. Yet if madness is your ailment, if you would rather peel yourself from the rocks rather than dash yourself against them, you must _choose_ to do so." Hannibal says simply, though there's a twist of something else in his voice, something hidden. "Perhaps you did not want this, but you _required_ it. For your doubts. For your struggles. And so too do I require something of you."

Hannibal steps closer, just one step. His gaze hardens. "Eat. Rest. Drink less. If you come to me looking like this again, I will revoke visitation."

* * *

The very air around Will feels heavy with a tension that threatens to snap. Is it the same for Hannibal? Surely they strike a thematic scene for Alana, but there is no soaring buildup of background music. There is no aesthetic lighting and shadows. Will isn't an actor. There is no mask to slide off. Hannibal remains composed and Will can't even claim to be surprised or agitated by the display. Would he want Hannibal to crumble at this reunion? Would he want Hannibal _weak_? (No.)

Whatever lurches through him, whatever pain or confusion or anger, Will is still alive. He keeps breathing. His heart keeps pumping. He hadn't died from Hannibal's blade or saw. He hadn't died from Cordell's scalpel. He hadn't died from Tier's beast. 

What is Will to make of his apparent resilience or luck? He is a survivor, but like most survivors, the picture he paints isn't a pretty one. Will's clothing fits him poorly, at least a size or two too large now. He hasn't been shaving as often as he used to and his hair, once more, has grown long enough to the point where it's curling wildly.

There is very little warmth in Hannibal. Perhaps now Hannibal is truly dwelling in an unreachable tower and there are no intestines for Will to attempt to climb. There is a flicker of uncertainty that Will detects, as if Hannibal is uncertain what he exactly wants to tap into. As Hannibal's eyes look him over once more, Will tries to school himself into something more contained.

Hannibal's words... Is this madness Will's port or ailment? They both know the answer but it doesn't make it any easier to hear Hannibal succinctly sum up this current predicament: Will may not have _wanted_ this, but Hannibal had chosen to answer Will's doubt and struggles with this decision.

Hannibal takes a step closer, but Will does not move, for there is something about the movement that seems decidedly off. It quickly becomes clear when Hannibal gives his requirement:

_'Eat. Rest. Drink less. If you come to me looking like this again, I will revoke visitation.'_

This has a broken, incredulous laugh slipping out. Will shakes his head in disbelief, averting his eyes. 

"Unlike Jesus, you wouldn't allow me to come as I am," Will retorts.

* * *

Chiyoh's report stretches in Hannibal's mind, the words subtle and hidden but he can see their physical representation in Will now. Like an emaciated dog, fur curling and matted, eyes listless but feverish for something that is not food, Will stands before him. Perhaps he has made an effort here, perhaps he hungers for the barest sight of Hannibal standing before him, as Hannibal does for him, and yet there is more to this reunion than want. 

There is understanding. There is accountability. There are repercussions. And there is _care_. 

Will's incredulity is expelled on a laugh, the sound raw and cracked like the veritable teacup. His eyes list to the side before dropping, as though ashamed to meet Hannibal's knowing stare. Hannibal, for all his finery and expensive tastes, is existing in this small box with no illusion of privacy or respect. 

Will, free but for the restrictions Chiyoh has imposed, has steadily been crumbling, has been dashing himself against the rocks until he's broken pieces off from himself. And here he stands, hopeful, holding those pieces for Hannibal to either crumble into dust or affix back in place.

Hannibal feels the barest of pangs within, a memory months deep now, of reaching for Will, of cradling him like something fragile, something precious. Even then, at his most delicate, Will had found something on which to stand. He had maintained a shoddy foundation, but one had existed.

The shade of the man who stands before him now has no such benefit and Hannibal shakes his head slowly, his eyes bright and gaze hard. 

"I cannot build upon a farce of a foundation. Nor can you. I gave you freedom not so that you could squander it in a hope to escape from this reality, but so that you could fully appreciate it. I am not a benevolent god, Will. I should not think I would be anything like Jesus either." 

Hannibal looks Will over slowly again, thoughtfully. He notes the curl to Will's hair, the circles dark-as-bruises under his eyes, the emptiness in his gaze. Chiyoh had been right to contact him. 

"I did not give you freedom to watch you waste away," he says softer, ducking his head, the words only for Will. "Is that who you are, Will?"

* * *

Will knows that he has Chiyoh to thank for convincing Hannibal to see him. It's an unpleasant truth that sits like a lump in his stomach. Likely she had described his abysmal state of being. Honestly, Will could be doing far worse. There's always lower, there's always further to fall. Sure this is currently _his_ worst now, but he's still standing. 

Scars upon scars, Will is upright. Nothing internal is damaged. Hannibal knew how to cut him just right... and Mason's men intervened before Hannibal could literally get inside his head. A survivor, indeed.

Will has brought them to this point. Unintentionally, yes. Will knows that his own self-destruction and doubt had cornered Hannibal. Will had exerted his influence, had proven himself, once more, a force to be reckoned with. How many times will he obliterate Hannibal's life? Will had asserted that loving Hannibal was akin to a bloodsport, but Hannibal loving him... What's that like? Trying to bottle lightning? Attempting to rein in a tempest? He doesn't want to know.

Disbelief is simply his initial reaction, but Will isn't so far gone that he doesn't understand what's actually going on here. Hannibal may be attempting to assert a measure of control over him, but it's done because he _cares_. 

As destructive as Hannibal undoubtedly is, it had been Hannibal's hands that mended his wounds after Muskrat Farm. It had been Hannibal that had held him. Hannibal hadn't left him at the Verger estate. And despite Will's betrayal, Hannibal hadn't killed him.

No, Hannibal is not a benevolent god nor is he anything like Jesus. Despite how utterly destroyed Will had felt since that jarring morning when Jack had stormed the place and ripped them apart, this isn't a rose-tinted reunion where everything is perfect simply because the two of them are in the same room. Nothing has been simple for Will and he imagines that that will remain par for the course. 

"I'm not really free and this is... transitory," Will murmurs. He obviously has no plans on having his visitation rights revoked and he can't remain as he is. 

Something needs to change. He can change. 

As he looks back to Hannibal, Will takes another step closer to the partition, the thread tugging until taut. This is as close as he can get lest he press himself flush against it. 

"You made your grand gesture, shook everything up. Now what? Is _this_ transitory as well?" Will's eyebrow lift in a mild challenge. It needs to be. This can't be the end. Hannibal wouldn't be so cruel...

* * *

There can be no trust without certainty, and certainty is not possible between them. Yet it _is_ possible to come close, and it is all that Hannibal can hope for at present. They could not have continued on as they had been, Hannibal bending and reaching and Will accepting, and then cowering, or questioning. 

They have done much to one another. Will's fear, his suspicion, his paranoia had made sense, but such things are not sustainable. When he had rejected the foundation on which to rebuild himself, when he had looked at Hannibal's care as a game, he had been guaranteeing that they could not move on from that point. He had denied himself the basic materials for building their lives anew. Trust and certainty. This is as close as Hannibal can get.

This life is not lavish. This life is not private or delicate. There is no beauty in these walls, no decency to be had. Will knows what Hannibal prides himself on, what he had _needed_ in order to enjoy each day. He had given it all up, and while Hannibal cannot inject truth and certainty into Will's mind, this is the next best thing. Yet it only works if Will allows it to. Hannibal regards him closely.

When Will steps in closer, Hannibal's gaze drops to the holes in the partition before him. One finger, perhaps another could fit through each, and the thought of touching Will Graham in any capacity makes his chest feel light. Yet Will does not look stable. His eyes are haunted, his shoulders low, and this close, Hannibal can make out the lines on his lips from dehydration and the scruff of his beard, wild and untamed. Hannibal drinks in every detail of Will's falling, and yet he cannot deny the thrill he feels at having Will close once again. He has always been damned.

Will's voice is soft, so soft that even had the recording been working, Hannibal doubts that Alana could have heard. Hannibal himself needs to focus in order to hear what is being said, and when Will looks up at him, Hannibal does not see challenge in his eyes. He sees _pleading_. The sight is momentarily breathtaking.

"That, my dear Will, depends on you," Hannibal replies, leaning in closer. Finally, aware of Alana's watching, he lifts one hand, and his fingertips touch the partition before him. He raises his hand high enough to see, but his other moves forward as well. He presses the pad of one finger against one of the smaller holes, the barest touch. 

"Is this enough to cast aside your doubts? To _punish_ me the way you required? We were not sustainable, not with the state of your mind. Not with your doubts and your need to challenge me."

* * *

Will understands that love isn't enough to pull them from the mire and propel them forward. Love has never been and will never be enough. This is no children's fairy tale. There needs to be a foundation, there needs to be trust, both of which are two components that have never been easily acquirable by Will. 

There exists love, there exists their persistent red thread, but Hannibal is still Hannibal and Will is still Will. Past horrors are not easily wiped away. Still, Will feels dirtied by them. Fading? Blending? Not anymore. Brilliantly stained? Yes. 

There isn't freedom. Not really. Will has been free of Hannibal's physical presence, but in every other aspect, Hannibal has lingered like a haunting specter. The absence of Hannibal has been felt so keenly, like a blade hovering over Will's skin, posed to make a cut that never comes. Hannibal may not have left him with a bleeding wound, but Will had still felt as shaken up as he'd been while lying prone in the hospital bed.

Shock and disbelief have been a steady companion for Will these past months. There is no denying that Will has let himself go, that he's struggled with the upkeep of himself. While feeling lost and directionless, eating well, grooming and sleeping hadn't been imperative to Will. Winston had been his primary witness but Winston hadn't judged him for it, not like Hannibal at least. 

But Will can turn this around. It's within his realm of control. But what of Hannibal?

A hand is raised and Will doesn't miss the telling placement. Where Hannibal's hand is... It allows for the potential of touch. Will shifts, aligning his body to where Hannibal stands. The questions are not easy to hear. 

_Is_ this enough? He'd admitted to being angry and wanting to hurt Hannibal, but Will could never have imagined this outcome. 

Will's hand lifts and it mirrors Hannibal's. It's placed along the partition, a finger over the hole as he seeks out the touch like a starving man seeking crumbs. There is no spark of electricity, no momentous shift follows it. Hannibal's skin is a little dry, but still soft. It's not enough.

But it has to be. For now.

"What do I need to do?" Will asks. 

* * *

It is such a small concession but it will have to do. Misdirecting with one hand whilst saving the real touch for Will where Alana cannot witness it. 

Hannibal has taken long weeks to learn the precise angles of the cameras, murmuring words to himself in passing and waiting for Alana to reference what he's said later. He knows this blind spot, and while this reunion is not the grand, earth-shattering one that Hannibal might have ached for, it will do. There is much that still needs to be done, many changes that need to be made, and Hannibal must feel secure in Will's faith. 

Certainty may be impossible, but trust... that is another matter entirely. If this gesture has taken root, if it is good enough for Will, trust might be possible.

Will reaches for him. He does so haltingly, and the faint brush of skin through the small hole will never be enough to sustain either of them. There is no frisson of energy, no growing need. Instead, Hannibal feels the rougher calluses on Will's skin and is reminded once more that Will has not been caring for himself. That, he has decided, will change.

Will asks him what he needs to do, and Hannibal levels Will with a mild look, something almost expressionless for the camera. Yet despite the set of his lips and the lack of overt body language, there is a firmness, a fire hidden in his eyes. Perhaps he cannot show passion overtly, perhaps there is little he can do to bypass Alana's suspicion, but he can do this. Will's empathy is a great boon here.

"You need to brace yourself," Hannibal says calmly as he meets Will's eyes, not daring to blink. "Jack Crawford will hear of this and will call upon you. He will question your loyalty, will question your sanity. You must _ensure_ that he remains blind. Recall the way you acted whilst imprisoned, Will. How you played upon the pity of those around you. Use that to your advantage."

Hannibal's fingers curl almost imperceptibly. The barest hint of one nail scratches against the pad of Will's finger. "And for me... when you next see me, you will have changed. Eat three meals a day. Sleep. Drink less. Groom yourself. I expect more than this."

* * *

Love may not be enough to miraculously mend, but this isn't their ending. This can't be. Hannibal _here_ cannot be a permanent thing. Hannibal wouldn't stand to be locked up indefinitely, to be controlled like this. It's horribly ironic because hadn't a part of Will _wanted_ Hannibal in this very place? For the beast to be caged? There had been some small part, some bitter darkness that wanted to cling to the idea of a reckoning, of a vindicated justice. Belly split open, Will had gasped out that he hadn't wanted Hannibal _dead..._

Funny, now Will wants the exact opposite of Hannibal caged and denied freedom. He hates seeing Hannibal like this. Hannibal with his appearance altered, the shorn hair, the prison jumpsuit. Hannibal contained and kept from him. This great divide between them, it's been birthed from Will's uncertainty. 

The glass may be see-through, Will may be here and standing less than a few feet away from Hannibal, but there is a distance that Will wants nothing to do with. During Will's stay in that house on the bluff, there had existed pockets of intimacy. Hannibal caring for him, Hannibal holding his hand and falling asleep with him... Hannibal going to his knees, licking the come off his skin, devoted. 

_'Loving you is a bloodsport,'_ Will had claimed. 

So Will asks what he needs to do, because as of right now, he's utterly directionless. The current has been too rapid, the curves unexpected and Will has no paddle, no guide. The expression that meets him is meticulously but effortlessly constructed. Will's own eyes narrow as he searches Hannibal's eyes, looking past the mildness that is being portrayed on his face. There's a steadfastness that Will _feels_ more than sees reflected back to him. There's a solidity to Hannibal that Will craves.

Will listens. He must be ready to deal with Jack. No doubt Alana will be informing Jack. Will needs to once again put on a mask, to play on sympathies, to show what needs to be shown, to deceive. Simple enough in theory, isn't it? Maybe. Jack is no fool, but this is direction.

A slight scratch of a nail against Will's skin and Hannibal is apparently not finished with his answer. Will's eyebrows furrow as Hannibal's words slide over him and sink in. It's admonishment. It's like parenting. It's expectations. It's also direction. 

"Then, you'll see more than this," Will says carefully. 

* * *

Hannibal does not imagine the tender hooks lodging steadily beneath his skin, nor does he pretend that he is. Will Graham is a broken, shattered creature, but he is not without possibility of redemption. Like Christ, tortured, lashed, buried, and left alone in death, this is but an absolution. 

Will's suffering is akin to religion and Hannibal has given him a miracle. There is no burning bush, there are no raised dead, and this is not the parting of the sea, but Hannibal has opened his palm to Will, has offered him the olive branch held within. It is up to Will to decide if he will accept it, if he will have faith. Only time will tell.

Yet in that moment of connection, as Hannibal drinks in the pitiful picture that Will makes like a dying man to hope, he cannot claim to be unaffected. It is... _good_ to see Will, even if the sight of him - shoddy, cowed, and broken - is obscene compared to what Hannibal knows him capable of. 

So as Will considers him, as Will's brow furrows and understanding lights behind his eyes, Hannibal cannot help the slight shift of his hand. The nail that had scratched along Will's skin presses instead, sharing warmth and sensation and, though tenuous, hope.

Hannibal nods only once, easy to miss, but he doubts that Will's eyes have failed to see something that he has ached for, for so long. 

"See that you do." The press of a nail becomes the slide of skin upon skin once more, and Hannibal might not feel any groundbreaking spark, but he feels familiarity and a tentative beginning if Will accepts this. If Will can cast aside his aspersions and doubts and _try_.

"Come to me once more in two weeks," Hannibal says, softer, meeting Will's near-fevered gaze. "You should not visit sooner, lest Jack's suspicion stoke itself. _Prove_ to me that you have tried. And then... then we shall speak."


	3. Always linger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will wants touch and closeness, for them to be sharing the same air again, for Hannibal's fingernail to caress his palm like the tip of a blade - for his particles to be allowed to cross the partition.

_'I expect more than this.'_

Hannibal's words remain with Will, his very own brand, a resounding echoing inside his skull. Hannibal's reprimand is also a direction for Will. Their meeting, although brief, has infused Will with hope - or at least the beginnings of hope. A seed has been planted.

Hannibal had made this grand gesture for him and perhaps it had been selfish of Hannibal to force this on both of them, but Will can't take this potential chance for granted. He'd already been saved from Mason's fiendish plans. How many chances could he realistically get anyway? Will hasn't died by Hannibal's hand, his body and mind have not been consumed. He bears Hannibal's scars, both on the inside and out, and as he talks with Alana afterward, he does find the perfect mask to slip on. It's almost too easy.

Will reflects trauma but also a desire to move on and get past this. He asks her for a recommendation for a new psychiatrist. She'd done so well with Hannibal, after all. Will pretends that he doesn't see her slight wince as she relives what she had done, but how can she refuse him?

Jack may have set the ball in motion, but it had been Alana's hands that had introduced the players to the board.

Hannibal is with him. Every action Will takes is bringing him closer. That's what Will chooses to believe. So he drives home, hands slightly shaking as he holds onto the wheel. He drives to Wolf Trap without thought. He's almost chagrined by this slip up.

Will stares at his little place, now abandoned. His house has been featured on TattleCrime, of course. Now Will wants to watch it burn to the ground. He plans to take care of it later.

He drives home to Winston and takes him to a nearby off-leash park. Seeing Winston tromp around happily brings a small, genuine smile to his face. He feels like a weight has been lifted off him. Will begins making a list in his head about what he needs to do and a realistic pace to take.

He fields a call from Jack that evening and the lies roll off his tongue.

* * *

Will's presence in front of Hannibal might fade like smoke, like the barest hint of memory on the wind, but that does not mean that Will's influence vanishes. Like a breath of fresh air, the visit does what little else has managed to do over the last few months.

It revitalizes the small flame of hope in Hannibal's chest. For, while it had been simple to wonder if Will would _ever_ make his choice, the visit had said enough without saying anything incriminating.

As the days following Will's visit pass, Hannibal finds himself lightly stroking his own fingertips where he had pressed them against Will's skin so carefully. By times, Hannibal wonders if the sensation feels more like fire or ice, a cold dread or a blazing longing, but nothing matters now save for Will's promise.

Hannibal is the picture of politeness as the days follow. He converses idly with Alana when she chooses to visit, and when she expresses her flat suspicion over his meeting with Will, Hannibal gives her non-answers that sound like answers and she can't think of a way to dig the information from his mind. Instead, eyeing him like she had the night in Mason's barn, like a caged tiger held by a single red thread, she defaults to a clipped politeness and Hannibal pretends not to notice.

Right now, the aim is to wait. Hannibal finds himself looking around these three walls and his glass screen idly, finds himself gazing up at the moon each evening, and he wonders what he will see when Will visits him next.

Will he be the cowed, desperate, broken creature that he had been, or will there be _proof_ in his appearance, in his eyes? Will he be someone worthy of shifting every brick and slab this building has been built on, or will he be pitiful and broken, as he had been by the bluff? Only time will tell.

Yet still Hannibal's fingers stroke over the places that he had made contact with Will. Still, like a soothing mantra, Hannibal touches and - in his quiet moments when Alana has left him with bitter knowledge that Will has taken a new psychiatrist - he _hopes_.

* * *

Will does end up calling Molly, but it's not to set up a date to get together and it's not to walk their dogs either. Will isn't cruel, but he isn't warm. He's polite enough but makes it clear that there won't be any future for them. With his head out of the fog, he can't believe that he'd even been tempted. He needs to ensure that Hannibal doesn't hear about this and he's fairly certain that as long as he cuts it off _now_ , there will be no reason for Hannibal to exact any sort of revenge.

It's yet another red flag, of course. At least it would be for any sane, normal individual, but _normal_ and _Will_ are very very far apart. His sanity has already been doubted and poked at. They may not be lovers in the traditional sense of the word, but Will knows that _his_ lover happens to be a jealous one. And why _shouldn't_ Hannibal be? Will had felt spite and jealousy toward Bedelia, more so now that he knows it had been _her_ idea for Hannibal to get "inside" his head.

He wants her to burn, like a witch tied to a stake being punished for her supposed crimes. But he also wants Hannibal to slice the snake's throat because doesn't Hannibal deserve it? Will thinks she'd had a delicate throat when she'd leaned in and hissed through the bars, ' _I believe you_.'

His thoughts have been bloody as of late. Good thing his new shrink is none the wiser. She's good, specializing in trauma and co-dependency, but Will has dealt with the best, hasn't he? He knows the tricks of the trade and he knows how much to give, how much to let her see. It's not _all_ lies, and some of her advice isn't even that bad, but Will isn't looking to become healthy and whole again - at least not in the way that she's hoping for.

He's still missing a vital piece.

Once again, standing naked and in front of the mirror, Will's fingers run over his seams - the scar on his abdomen, and the additions to his cheek and forehead. He's not going to be unzipping anything, there will be no stuffing coming out. Now that Will is going through the motions of attempted recovery, it gives him more to do.

He journals for his shrink. He drinks considerably less - only a finger or two of whiskey before bed. He eats better. It's an uncomfortable adjustment, but after the first week Will already sees progress - he both looks and feels better.

Thankfully Chiyoh stays away - at least Will doesn't see her. Will has no doubt that she's probably keeping an eye out on him. He doesn't appreciate it, but there's nothing he can do about it. Chiyoh is Hannibal's guard dog. _Faithful_. This is Will's test, his own trial to endure and he's not going to let the past wrap its tentacles around him and pull him under. He won't drown.

Will gets his hair trimmed. He starts shaving regularly and in exactly two weeks time, he drives back to see Hannibal. It's a balance of looking better, but not too much better. Will can't appear in control. Will can't let anyone know. He's not going to fuck this up. He's prepared to deal Freddie, too.

He has a lover to say hello to.

* * *

Two weeks in a criminal psychiatric hospital might crawl along sedately for some, but Hannibal suffers no such indignity. The world outside his mind is overly-pristine and clouded, crawling along at that snail's pace, but he does not exist in the hospital as one week becomes two. He lives in his mind, his eyes serenely closed, and his fingertips touching and brushing along the place where Hannibal had made contact with Will. It is the barest hint of connection, and perhaps it will remain unfounded. It is entirely likely that Will won't respond well to him. It is likely that Will might not show, might decide that the act of dragging himself back up from the Hell in which he has fallen is no longer worth it.

Yet in the off chance that he _does_ , Hannibal intends to be ready for him.

Two weeks to the day that Hannibal had given Will instruction, he is alerted, albeit tensely, that he has a visitor. He opens his eyes and retreats from the pleasant recollection of an evening on the bluff, and he is not surprised to see the tension in Alana's eyes, the suspicion there. Hannibal looks at her mildly, and though he knows precisely who it is, he feigns indifference.

"Surely Frederick has not decided to return so soon."

"You know very well that it's not Chilton," Alana says quietly, with a hint of threat in her voice.

For a moment, the two of them look at one another, Hannibal with blank politeness, and Alana with the tight look of something small and delicate, something with a quickly-racing heart as it waits in the long grass for a predator to pass. Then, finally, Alana nods tightly and turns. She leaves with no further fanfare and Hannibal watches her go quietly.

There are no skulking snakes in the grass when Will is permitted entry into the BSHCI. Alana welcomes him, though the warmth in her eyes is thin as she looks him over. The conversation is quick, stilted, and it leaves Alana looking perhaps even more tense as soon as it passes. She does promise to cut out the audio again, but an edge in her voice warns Will that maybe this won't be a recurring theme for long.

Yet none of that matters when Hannibal catches his first glimpse of Will in weeks.

When Will steps into the room, Hannibal glances over at him and then slowly, carefully sits up. His expression is mild, yet even though he does not make it obvious, his eyes rake over every visible inch of Will, all but voraciously thirsting for the mere sight of him. Yet despite the thrill upon seeing Will again, and the ache at having him close, Hannibal does not let himself get washed away in sentiment.

Instead, he _looks_. He takes in the neat trim to Will's beard and hair, and the lack of obvious wrinkles in Will's clothing. He sweeps his gaze over pale skin, noting with satisfaction that it looks less sallow, and yet Hannibal does still eye the slight bags under Will's eyes with some interest. It takes him only seconds to understand, and _that_ is a far better indicator of Will's finality than anything else. He still looks shoddy, still looks somewhat broken, but when Hannibal meets Will's eyes, he sees a familiar fire simmering low behind them.

A thrill cuts through Hannibal's chest. He finally stands, ever polite, ever distant on the surface, but there is a mild crinkle at the corner of Hannibal's eyes that denotes vicious satisfaction.

"Hello, Will. You look well."

* * *

Will needs to be smart about this. He needs to be careful. Thankfully, it feels as if his mind is finally re-engaged and working again. He's playing a game, of sorts. He's wearing a mask and fooling those around him. Fooling Jack, Alana, Linda his therapist. Ironically, it might be Freddie who's closest to the truth, but Will isn't concerned about her.

Partaking in this has Will feeling more like himself but it doesn't frighten him anymore. It feels like a fog has been lifted off of Will's senses. However, nothing is bright and simple. The storm may have passed by but there is no rainbow. Reality is still stark, still sharp like a scalpel posed over flesh, but there's much more clarity and Will prefers it. It's direction. It's purpose. It's a breath of fresh air for his lungs.

Will had gotten the OK from Linda for one more visit to Doctor Lecter, insisting that he needed this - a cutting of ties, a goodbye. He called Alana to inform her of his impending visit, and when she greets him, he can hear the inkling of suspicion present. He can't trust that she will actually cut the audio feed. He'll deal.

There's a journal that's under Will's arm. A simple coiled book containing lined paper that he's done his therapy work in. Will has a letter that he's going to read to Hannibal. His apparent goodbye letter.

He's dressed in wrinkled clothing - a dark pair of pants and an olive green button down shirt. His hair, although trimmed, is purposely not styled. Will's expression is planned - it's pensive. He steps into Hannibal's "cell."

Will lets Hannibal take his look and give a greeting first.

"Hello Doctor Lecter," Will returns neutrally. This time he settles himself a comfortable distance from the partition, but not awkwardly too far away. He, too, doesn't show his true feelings - the relief, the longing, the determination.

"I have... braced myself," Will goes on. It's a call back to Hannibal's last warning - that Will would need to brace himself in dealing with Jack and those around him. "I have changed. I am _changing_. I have a new therapist who's been helping me."

* * *

Will's appearance is so meticulously styled that were they not being monitored, Hannibal might be inclined to reach out, to give a vague indication that he might like to touch despite the oceans between them. As it stands, he cannot allow himself such an indulgence and instead he watches as Will walks in and then stops much further away than he had two weeks ago. Hannibal calculates it, calculates Will's distance, and it becomes quickly apparent that Will is either playing a game, or that something has changed. Hannibal is assuming the former, as Will is so perfectly _imperfect_ that it has to be an act.

Perhaps he looks more put together, but his clothes remain wrinkled and his expression remains half-haunted. He has put in an effort at changing his appearance, yet still he appears cowed and uncertain. There are ghosts behind his eyes even if his expression remains neutral, and it is fascinating to witness him standing like that - in control, and yet artfully broken.

The notebook under Will's arm is what eventually draws Hannibal's attention. He glances at it idly, quietly, and while he has not seen it before, he can hazard a guess as to its purpose. So when Will speaks, his tone _just_ detached enough to imply a lack of care, yet his words poised like hooks ready to reel Hannibal's attention in, Hannibal's posture relaxes. He looks at Will, a captive audience.

"And to think. You once assumed that therapy would not work for you," Hannibal says mildly, conversationally. "Given the right exposure, anyone can become familiar with anything. What have you brought with you?"

* * *

It's a balance between making strides to appear interested and involved in healing, but not be anywhere near "fixed" or worse - deemed untrustworthy or possibly colluding with Hannibal. Given Will's lot in life - at least the last few years - it's easy enough for him to rack up sympathy points. Most people would rather peg him as the poor unfortunate victim of Hannibal Lecter's than some sort of accomplice. It works in Will's favor now.

It's still an uncomfortable image seeing Hannibal dressed in the bland jumpsuit with his hair too short. Granted, Hannibal hasn't been Hannibal for a while now. Not in Europe with the leather jacket and gloves, and not on the bluff with the softer clothing and the lack of layers due to the wounds (save for the morning Hannibal had been "caught" as he'd apparently dressed up for that). It's only _now_ that Will thinks he may actually be missing those extravagant and quirky suits.

Will wants touch and closeness, for them to be sharing the same air again, for Hannibal's fingernail to caress his palm like the tip of a blade - for his particles to be allowed to cross the partition.

He doesn't step closer and he doesn't let himself lose the somewhat pieced together image he's presenting here. Hannibal is counting on him to not fail in this. Will isn't going to let this slip through his fingers like sand. He's not going to be left behind or taken away. Never again.

Hannibal's little comment about Will's earlier thoughts regarding therapy has him purposely looking away and shifting on his feet before he appears to work up the nerve to look at Hannibal again.

"My journal," Will answers plainly. There's no reason to lie about it. He'll be opening it up soon enough anyway. Alana may be recording the audio, but Will has the advantage because most of the cameras are pointing in on Hannibal and not directed at him.

"I've been trying to make sense of everything. Revisiting the past... The writing has been like a paddle, helping direct me." Will's eyebrows lift every so slightly, hoping to forge this connection with Hannibal before he reads what he must.

During their last visit Hannibal had provided direction. Hannibal had been Will's paddle again and Will had been receptive to it.

* * *

It is not an act. Not the facade that Will presents to him. Hannibal feels a knot of thorns unwind in his chest as he watches Will play the part that he's meant to. For while it is not an act for Hannibal, it _is_ a carefully-constructed, brilliant act for anyone who might be watching.

Alana could record the audio at any time if she's not already doing so, and in a few months' time when all of this is a mere memory, a hiss of a nightmare in the darkest nights, Hannibal is sure that every word that they say here will be gospel for the FBI. He fully expects these visits to be public record before long, for law enforcement to pour over every available shred of information in order to see where they went wrong.

The world has chosen to underestimate Will Graham time and time again. Not even Will has felt himself capable. In truth, the only person who has ever seemed sure of Will's ability outside of Hannibal himself has been Freddie Lounds. And, if what the orderlies had been speaking about a few weeks ago is any indication, she has once more been circling Will like a shark. Will's resulting caution is fascinating to watch, like a living sculpture, art in life.

For while Will looks at him as though Hannibal is the monster in the closet, there is a faint glint in his eye that speaks of hunger, of collusion. Of a deep, gnawing desire to make his choice, to play his part and finally cast off the vestiges of his victim-suit and _become_ the way Hannibal has long known him capable of.

Will had always needed proof. He'd needed direction. And as he speaks, as he casts his gaze down before 'bravely' looking back up, the picture of uneasy determination, Hannibal drinks in the sight of him. Will Graham is no longer the faint sketch on parchment, but bold, bright, brash colors thrown onto it with conviction. Hannibal listens, quietly rapt, though his expression remains casual, politely-interested. He doesn't miss the raise of Will's eyebrows, doesn't miss Will's desire to connect with him.

"Journaling is typically a private affair," Hannibal says calmly, setting the stage up for Will to step upon. "If you have brought it with you today, I assume that there is a reason."

* * *

It had been strange to pick up a pen and scribble down his thoughts - or at least the approved thoughts Will was fine with sharing. With the rise of technology, he'd grown used to typing on a laptop or on his phone, but there is something almost therapeutic about the physical act of writing that Will had connected to. He could feel the solidity of the pen in his hand, could watch his fingers curl around the instrument. He could see his penmanship start to grow messier during certain subject matter. His own hand could smear the ink at times. It wasn't necessarily neat and pretty, but it was _real_.

Will also remembers the book Hannibal had kept on him, pages filled with beautifully handwritten therapy notes. It had been burnt in Hannibal's office along with all of Hannibal's other patient records. Will wonders if his journal will also meet the same fate. It's not as impressive as Hannibal's book had been, but Will has no need for such a thing. No one would have expected him to get something fancy anyway. Will had went with a utilitarian notebook. Now he wonders how many more journal entries he'll have to write, how long he'll keep this up...

What he's written in this book are shades of the truth, as if looking in a funhouse mirror. Not all angles are covered, but some of those angles - those truths - are for Hannibal and him only. They're truths that dwell inside the bone arenas of their very skulls and they will not be put on display.

Will is on display right now. Video, audio most likely. The only privacy is the hunger in their eyes. Alana will likely inform Jack of this meeting - Will wouldn't be surprised at least. He's ready. Hannibal had directed him to act again and Will has done just that.

"Sure, journaling is private, but what I've brought today isn't a journal entry. It's a letter." Will clears his throat, squeezing the notebook to his side tightly. "It's a goodbye letter, Doctor Lecter." Will swallows as his fingers twitch at his sides.

He doesn't _want_ to read this letter, but Will knows that he's going to. He'll prove to Hannibal that he's made his choice.

* * *

The stage has been set, the lights are cast, the script refined. All that remains is to put on the show, and as Hannibal regards the odd tightness in Will's eyes, he must applaud him for his bravery. Will has taken his challenge and gone beyond, and were Hannibal capable of expressing his delight, he would. Given the camera pointed at him, however, there is little that he can do save for look at Will with masked expectation.

He wonders, quite suddenly, how far Will intends to take this, how close to the truth this act will be. Yet as he stands there calmly and watches Will's fingers work nervously on his journal, Hannibal _also_ finds himself wondering if the entire thing will be an act.

The best lies are grounded in truth, after all. And as Will seems to gather himself up, Hannibal wonders what he will be subjected to. So when Will speaks, when he indicates a _goodbye letter_ , there is a very small part of Hannibal that _does_ pause. His expression remains mostly impassive, save for the brief tilt of his head that he affects for the cameras watching.

Will is either setting the stage like an actor, or risking everything. Hannibal merely hopes that he has made the right choice. Everything leading up to this moment - the look in Will's eyes, cleaning himself up and taking care of himself, and the coded speech - has been a steady culmination. Now, after speaking of paddles, after implying that Hannibal still has that connection, it is Will's turn to create a spectacle of himself.

"An attempt at recovery," Hannibal suggests quietly. "Of facing your demons? Confronting your attacker, as it were. Very well, Will. Let us see how well you can sever the thread."

* * *

Will hadn't thought that this would be his stage, but here he is, putting on a performance, tapping into something cool and dark within. It's a depthless pool that he's peering into and as Will's eyes seek out his own reflection, it's Hannibal's eyes that he sees instead. Hannibal's composed, steady eyes that have regarded him in many different states of being, but have still wanted and loved him despite the variance. Fraying or resolute, naive or petty, Hannibal still wants him. Will understands this now.

Will finds his own resilience, his own strength and he embraces it. He'll trust that Hannibal has a plan here because Hannibal may have made a grand gesture in granting him this supposed clean slate, but Will knows that Hannibal would not allow himself to rot away in a cell. No, this is not Hannibal's last stop. It couldn't be.

_An attempt at recovery_ , Hannibal offers and Will's lips want to twitch in an amused grin, but he doesn't let himself. Instead, Will gives a grimace because Hannibal simply continues on and mentions severing a thread. It has to be _their_ red thread. There's no doubt about it.

"Yeah, something like that," he mumbles and then licks his lips. He lifts his notebook and opens it, flipping it to the correct page. The words are waiting for him. He's read them. He's practiced this, despite that, he feels as if that isn't the case. He shoves down his uncertainty.

"Doctor Lecter," Will begins, trying for steady, but his voice still wavers a bit. He thinks it's just the right mix. "You deceived me. Played with me. Studied me. _Hurt_ me. Tried to kill me... Kidnapped me." Will stops and takes a breath. He doesn't dare look up. Not yet. "You've... changed me."

Hannibal remains silent, listening, just as Will expected him to. The room is so quiet, their audience rapt. Will's heartbeat is steady.

"Upon returning home, I hardly recognized myself. I was lost and confused. Angry. I felt powerless. But I now know who I am. I know what I am. I'm a survivor, Doctor Lecter. I'm not going to wear victimhood like a second skin and I won't let your actions stain me."

"This bloodsport is finished." Lie.

(Because Will had claimed, _'loving you is a bloodsport'_ while Hannibal had been on his knees.. _._ )

Now Will looks up at Hannibal. Hannibal is still standing, as poised as ever, unmoving. "I'm not afraid of you anymore." Truth.

(Because Will had confessed to being scared of Hannibal _and_ them...)

"I'm leaving this mess behind me." A shade of grey.

( _'I've already made you a mess... And you're **my** mess, Hannibal.' _These words had pushed Hannibal to orgasm.)

"I'm letting you go." Lie.

(Because Will had whispered, ' _don't let me go,'_ on their last night together.)

Their red thread has lasted this long and Will doesn't believe that it's being cut today. He closes his notebook. This part is done, but Hannibal must now play his.

* * *

Will stands before him, an actor on a stage, brave and bold and terrified, and Hannibal aches. He aches to touch him, to comfort, to gather Will against his chest as he never had properly and crush Will to him. To hold him until death or convergence, whichever comes first. Yet as Hannibal stands there, a secret actor in his own right, nothing shows on his face. He looks politely impassive, yet there is a fire that he allows to slowly burn in his eyes, as to be completely stone-faced would bring suspicion upon Will.

Alana knows Hannibal's anger. She will see it in the tightness of his eyes, in the subtle press of his lips. This must look real - or perhaps it is, and the sever will leave gaping, rotting wounds until Hannibal can correct the damage. Yet as he stands there and Will silently withdraws his notebook, the picture of anxiety and forced bravery, Hannibal cannot help but hope.

He silently wills, silently pushes, supports in his mind while he cannot in the light. This will clear Will of all suspicion, will be his shining moment if he manages it properly. Will looks at him, and when he begins to speak, Hannibal listens.

He is quiet, and while the words form themselves into folded steel, Hannibal does not react. He listens to lists of his crimes, he files mistakes and curiosity alike away, for while it stings to hear, Will must play this part.

Yet it is the first mention - of bloodsport - that Hannibal forces his lips to tighten. Inside, something twists, something longing and open-ended dying to be tied off, to be completed. And when Will looks up at him, Hannibal remains impassive, but there is tension in his shoulders. He is not certain...

But then he is. Will disavows his fear, and Hannibal feels something sharp rise in his chest, something that feels like triumph, like relief, for _this_ is not a lie. And now that he has seen Will's truth, seen the look in his eyes, he listens with rapt attention. He will hear these words in his dreams for years to come.

Will intends to leave the mess behind, intends to _let him go_ , but there is the faintest hint of longing in his eyes when he speaks. Hannibal lifts his chin, and in that moment, the walls around him feel like a prison for the first time. He feels the distance acutely when he wants nothing more than to sink his fingers into Will's skin and blend into him until neither of them remain separate.

But he forces himself to stand stiffly, forces a small, almost avian tilt of his head as his lips thin. He forces anger to burn in his eyes as he stares Will down with an acted facade of civility.

"Perhaps... you have forced yourself to no longer fear me," Hannibal says tightly, though he wishes he could praise it against Will's skin. "But you know as well as I that you will never be free of me. This... _bloodsport_ , you call it, will always linger with you. A shade in your mind, a stain on your hands."

Hannibal lifts his chin, the picture of quiet anger, but pride thrums through each beat of his heart. "You may see yourself as a simple fox, adaptable and quiet, able to mingle with the dogs around you. Able to melt into their ranks. But you have been and always will be a wolf. You will never be like them. You will always be like me."

* * *

Will has given his performance and it is time for Hannibal to respond in kind. Knowing that Hannibal will understand his silver tongue doesn't make this any easier, however. It doesn't make telling lies and half-truths any easier. It doesn't make having to contain himself any easier. It doesn't make witnessing Hannibal's small reactions of displeasure any easier.

Will understands that this recording will be scrutinized. Every word and each response. He gets it.

But all Will wants to do is run to Hannibal, to be as close as physically possible, to somehow phase through any and all obstacles that would seek to keep them from each other. Hannibal had said that he would kill anyone who attempted to keep them apart. Will now wonders what the carnage will be when Hannibal opts to leave here and escape. This illustrates a key difference between them. Will would prefer to _not_ engage in unnecessary violence, but what 'unnecessary violence' is to Hannibal is different than to him. Will understands this now, but it's not the most important factor in the equation. How could it be?

After deceptions and betrayals, after all the loss and longing... Will knows their thread - as bloody as ever - endures. It had taken Hannibal leaving him twice to truly _see_ , but Will isn't going to return to his blindness now. He rejects this clean slate.

And he watches Hannibal affect himself just so - controlled anger making itself known in the glint of Hannibal's eye, in his posture. Will can do nothing but stand, his muscles feeling tight, the notebook pressed close to his chest now as he listens. _A shade in your mind, a stain on your hands._.. The words echo in Will's mind and Will has the strange urge to glance down at his hands. He knows there's no spilled blood there - not his own, not Abigail's, not Mason's men, not even Hannibal's victims...

When Hannibal's chin rises, Will's eyes narrow, his hands clenching at the notebook harder. The mention of foxes and wolves almost has Will's resolve crumbling because it's now apparent that Chiyoh had talked to Hannibal about that particular conversation out on the bluff months ago... Chiyoh had called him a fox - because he'd been reckless. She'd painted Hannibal as a wolf who thought he'd seen his reflection within the fox - within him - but that they were different.

But Hannibal sees him as an equal - as his equal.

Will looks down, his head giving a little shake as he hides whatever emotion might cross his face. His heart is beating quicker, but he pushes this quiet thrill down.

"You keep telling yourself that. I know my truth," Will says slowly. He turns to the door but before making his way over to it, he glances back at Hannibal. "This is the end. Goodbye."

* * *

Blood roars in Hannibal's ears as he regards Will in the silence that follows. It is akin to the crescendo of the opera, mighty and lingering, a swell of music, and then absolute silence. As Will looks at him, Hannibal can almost hear the vibrations lingering on the air, the roar of silence. Yet as the silence stretches, Hannibal feels a pang of vicious regret, for he knows what follows that final, beautiful note of silence on a stage.

He watches as Will draws himself up, as the metaphorical velvet curtain begins to fall. Hannibal ensures that his expression remains blank save the lingering false anger. He allows nothing else to get through, nothing that might incriminate him, nothing that might one day point Jack in the proper direction in a few years' time.

He merely looks at Will as though this is not the end, for it is the ultimate irony that to later look authentic and to not cast suspicion over Will, he must think exactly as he is.

Yet despite the calculations in Hannibal's mind, despite the knowledge that this performance will be their salvation, he cannot hide the flicker of something darker and displeased in his eyes as Will finally turns away from him. Hannibal stands there and for a moment he must bite back the very real desire to call out to Will, to say his name, to glimpse his face one final time before the coming separation. He doesn't; Hannibal will not risk their future on a flight of sentiment.

Hannibal watches Will leave quietly. There are thousands of words that Hannibal would like to say, but he knows that they must wait. Already he is forming a picture of Will in his mind, something with substance, something to last him in the months to come. Yet before Will vanishes, before the orderlies come to open the door for him, Will turns back to Hannibal one last time, and Hannibal reads epics in his eyes.

"We shall see how long your resolve lasts," Hannibal says calmly. "Only time will tell."

The ache in Hannibal's chest rises higher as he watches Will depart, but despite the desire to call after him, to ensure that Will has all the information that he needs, Hannibal says nothing. Instead, he waits, watching as the doors close. Then he closes his eyes, breathes slowly, and returns to his bed.

It will be some time before they meet again.


End file.
